


All I Have Never Known

by LittleSixx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Author Is Sleep Deprived, BAMF Hermione Granger, Ballroom Dancing, Cinderella Elements, Consequences, Dark Mark, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Good Draco Malfoy, HP: EWE, Malfoy Family, Marriage Law Challenge, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Hermione Granger, Polyjuice Potion, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smart Hermione Granger, The Author Regrets Everything, War, Wizarding Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-08-22 14:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8289256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSixx/pseuds/LittleSixx
Summary: After the Second Wizarding War, the Ministry of Magic issues a mandate requiring all magical people to marry someone of opposite blood status by age 25. The Malfoys host a ball to help Draco meet a non-pureblood witch and Hermione attends under Polyjuice. Hermione hopes to find someone tolerable and Draco just wants to get through the evening. Both characters are forced to confront their prejudice, punches are thrown, and true love never comes without a little rebellion. (Cinderella Fusion AU)





	1. (A Very Long) Prologue: Hermione

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Dowry of a Single Galleon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/153238) by [Bunney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunney/pseuds/Bunney). 



> My only beta is Spellcheck, so all mistakes are my own. This is my first fic in the HP universe.

“I thought it was a mistake.”

The coffee in her cup sloshed over the edges as her hand shook. They were hardly ever spotted in Muggle London, but Harry and Hermione chose a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop because they knew the perils of leaving a trail.

The invitation was not a mistake. It was clearly addressed to “Miss Hermione Jean Granger” alongside her _Daily Prophet._ Her stomach fell to her toes when she first saw the gilded silver “M” on the black envelope, which then sat on the table in front of her. She could not pull her eyes away, even as Harry took the seat across the table. Hermione had stared at it for so long she could recite the words from memory.  

 

> “ _You are cordially invited to the annual Christmastide Ball at Malfoy Manor, Thursday the twenty-sixth of December. We request you forego typical dress robes and don Muggle ballroom attire as we celebrate a new era of acceptance and cooperation among wizardkind. All those unwilling to cooperate need not attend. We look forward to welcoming you into our home._
> 
> _Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Black-Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy_ ”

Harry sipped his tea.

“They’ve invited everyone in the British wizarding community between twenty and thirty. Some people are coming in from France, Germany, and even Greece.”

“I can’t go.” Hermione said in a small voice. She wouldn’t go back there—she couldn’t. Malfoy Manor was centre stage in her recurring nightmares.  

“Hermione—“

“You’ve got Ginny and the entire Weasley family is married off now!” Hermione avoided saying Ron’s name because bitterness was still noticeable in her tone. “None of you have to worry about marrying someone you don’t love …” Hermione trailed off. “I always thought I’d fall in love. But this? Being forced to marry a pureblood by the time I’m 25? This is loveless. Maybe I could’ve found someone who was just as damaged by the war so they could understand what I’ve gone through. That's shot to hell, now.”

Harry laughed sardonically.

“Hermione, no one is as damaged by the war as the two of us,” Harry said. “This was not the world we were born into, but the wizarding world chose us to save it anyway. We were seventeen, living on our own in a tent and hunted by the most powerful, hateful people in the world. Ron, I know, I love Ron but even he couldn’t see what we had to go through because he is part of the twenty-eight. God, Hermione, I died for this world, but if you left like Ron did Voldemort would still be here. Two seventeen-year-olds with the world on our shoulders. You are more than strong enough to go, Hermione. As your best friend, I know you can deal with the memories you’re afraid of. Don’t pretend you are anything less.”

Hermione sighed, “It’s a setup, Harry. A glorified matchmaking party.”

“That’s the fun of it, though!” Harry said, excited. “Come on, I’ll be there with Gin. We get to wear Muggle clothes, too!”

“If you two had seen the look on my dear Lucius’s face when Draco made that decision!” A voice said. Hermione jumped and spilled coffee down her front as she turned around to face Narcissa Malfoy.

“Apologies,” she said pityingly.

Narcissa was every bit opposite her sister, Bellatrix, yet Hermione still shuddered involuntarily and wrapped her arms around herself. Narcissa’s blonde hair was pulled back in an elegant twist, a black coat cinched around her waist, and a forest-green scarf protected her neck from the London cold. Where Bellatrix was wild and unhinged, Mrs. Malfoy was the very embodiment of class and wizard royalty. That contrast almost warmed her to Hermione, but nothing could alter her memory. None of the potions or the spells she tried. It all stayed like it was branded on every synapse. Every face in the Manor while she was tortured hung like portraits in her mind: Draco’s fear, Narcissa’s pity, and Mr. Malfoy’s cold indifference stood in contrast to everyone else’s sick pleasure in her Mudblood screams.

That nightmare would never go away.

“Lady Malfoy, I’m … I’m …” Hermione flustered as she magicked the front of her shirt clean.

“Please, Miss Granger. Outside the Manor you may call me Narcissa.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hermione said, unable to look at her.

There was never enmity on Narcissa’s part, Hermione knew. It was only a cognizance of differences, but that knowledge did not make the pain go away even five years on.

“Mrs. Malfoy.” Harry stood and greeted her with a handshake. His light tone was genine but his smile was forced. “I do look forward to attending the ball. Gin will look great in a gown. And Hermione, as well.” Narcissa beamed.

“So you will come?! Wonderful!” She looked at Hermione and only saw the top of her bushy hair. “Oh, you will love it, I promise! You have my word. Draco is doing everything he can-–“

“Draco?” Hermione’s head snapped up. “Draco is making these decisions?”

Narcissa nodded enthusiastically.

“My wonderful boy. He never had an appetite for the old ways, but he wanted to be just like his father. And Lucius, well, Mr. Potter, you know all about his commitment to, shall we say, outdated wizarding tradition.” Harry paled slightly. “Family is the most important thing in this world, or any, and Voldemort nearly tore mine apart.

“We cannot change our past, but I want what is best for the future of my family, for Draco’s future. If that means marrying him off to someone that’s …” Narcissa glanced at the floor and tried to find the right words. Instead, she pivoted. “I don’t believe Draco is interested in the Muggle world, but he wants to right a wrong. All his wrongs and his father’s. I keep telling him there is no way, but he keeps trying. He wanted those from tainted lineage to be comfortable in our home.” Hermione squirmed and tried to sink further into her chair. Narcissa backed away. 

“I am sorry, Miss Granger.” She looked down at Hermione and realized there was no way to right that wrong, not even within herself. Despite her best efforts to gloss over history, Hermione felt Mrs. Malfoy’s lingering disdain.

“We are trying. Draco, he’s a better man than his father. We want to help. What can we do?” Narcissa asked and Harry pulled over a chair from a nearby table.

Hermione finally met her gaze, but only really had one question.

“Why are you in Muggle London?” She asked and cast a soundproofing charm around their small table. Narcissa sighed.

“To ensure the high-profile invitees will be in attendance. What is a ball without the Golden Trio?” Hermione’s gaze wavered but did not drop. “I want the Malfoy name to live on, as does Lucius. Draco knows his role. We want to find him a decent bride but avoid the appearance of whoring him out to society.”

“We’re props,” Hermione deadpanned.

“No! No, of course not!” Narcissa insisted. “You need to marry too, now. It is for the benefit of the community. Go, dance, mingle, and leave with better memories of Malfoy Manor than you have now.” Hermione shook her head. How could Mrs. Malfoy think it may be that easy? She couldn’t Obliviate those moments away if she tried.

“I can’t.”

“She will,” Harry insisted. “Hermione, you’re the strongest witch in generations. You’re Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic! The first Muggle-born to ever hold the position. Look at me, Hermione.” When she complied he continued, “Tell me, really, why you don’t want to go to the ball.” 

Hermione’s resolve faded.

“People know what happened. They will say I’m so desperate to find someone I returned to the place I was tortured. They’ll say—“

“Damn them to hell, Hermione!” Narcissa nearly shouted. “You will be under my roof and my protection. We will not discriminate any longer. We are prejudiced and the only thing we can do is ensure the future of our family is not. We need you. Perhaps you can send a good witch Draco’s way, he should be so lucky to find someone as amazing as yourself. Please, Hermione,” Narcissa’s voice softened. “You deserve a nice pureblood man, be there such a thing. You will look gorgeous and the whole of the crowd will have their eyes on you. Help yourself and help us. The world will be better for it.”

Hermione nodded slowly. It was tempting, and Narcissa was obviously trying to overcome her past grievances. There would never be another gathering of this size with people Hermione’s age. It would be the best opportunity to find happiness, to find someone who could help her through her struggles. It's not as though she had another option.

“I have one condition,” she said. 

“Name it,” Narcissa insisted.

“I get to use Polyjuice potion and go to Malfoy Manor where no one will know who I am. I get to find a man on my own, without the pressure of being … Me,” Hermione finished sadly. 

“Of course,” Narcissa said. “I look forward to seeing you both at the festivities.” With that, Narcissa rose from their table, bid them good-bye, and Disapparated. Harry turned to Hermione and said, “You are so important that Narcissa Malfoy came to Muggle London. That is amazing.”

“A bit creepy how she knew where we were,” Hermione admitted. Harry shrugged,

“Probably have a tracking charm on the invitations. Did you see how she was fawning over you? Laying it on a bit thick, wasn't she? 'Draco should be so lucky to find someone as amazing as yourself.' Sounded like she'd take the ring right off her finger if you'd agree to marry the poor bastard.”

Hermione giggled, then sighed.

“I still don’t know if I’ll be able to go back.”

“You will, I know it,” Harry said. “I heard Draco had a whole wing demolished and redone because it was painful for him to live in it.”

“Have you spoken to him?” Hermione asked. Harry nodded.

“I run into him at the Ministry on occasion. He’s still a pompous git, but I saw him when he had to kill Dumbledore. Even with his family’s lives, their entire line hanging in the balance, he wouldn’t do it. Draco’s spoiled rotten, he’s arrogant, and he’s loyal as hell to his family. But he’s a good man, I think.” Hermione nodded and went to get another coffee. The barista rang Hermione up and mentioned,

“That lady who came in earlier, she looked a bit posh. Like royalty, almost. We don’t get much of that sort in here.”

“You have no idea,” Hermione muttered as the barista quickly turned to make the drink. She was beautiful: long blonde hair and a tiny waist with a kind face. Like someone right out of a Muggle fairytale. Wasn’t that exactly what she was after? A Muggle fairytale in the wizarding world.

As the barista handed Hermione the coffee cup, she asked, “She frightened you, didn’t she?”

Hermione nodded and said, “Terrified, really.”

The barista gave her a knowing smile.

“Good on you, then, to get through it. My mother used to say, all you need is to have courage and be kind.”

Hermione smiled in response and deftly snatched a few stray hairs from the edge of her sweater.

“Thank you, Ella.”

**.oOo.**

“You are going to zee ball at zee Malfoys? ‘ow splendid!”

Fleur Weasley was the most fashionable woman Hermione knew. Never particularly gifted in that department, Hermione admitted she was in need of guidance. When she told Fleur she would attend the Christmastide Ball, Hermione was overwhelmed by Fleur’s excitement.

“You are like family!”

“Fleur, thank you so much. That means everything to me, you cannot possibly understand how much I appreciate your help. I just … I’m so scared. After everything, After Ron—“ Fleur nodded in understanding. “I just don’t want to be looked at like … Well, like they always look at me. Like I'm secondhand? The only unhappy third of the Golden Trio,” Hermione sighed. “Is it wrong? I want to go to the ball as someone other than me. Maybe it will work out. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“No! No, and I think this ees a good idea. You should find love, someone to love you like I love Bill.”

“Yes!” Hermione agreed. “Yes, that much.”

“Zen I know just zee person to make you a dress!” Fleur said, which is how Hermione wound up in the middle of wizarding Paris four days later, in the shop of Madame Annelle. Polyjuiced as Ella, all Hermione could think about was the extravagance of the small shop. Everything about Madame Annelle was large, from her black hair pulled back into an elegant updo to her vibrant aura that seemed to disperse throughout the store.

“Fleur!!” She greeted in French and kissed Fleur on the cheeks before turning to Hermione. “This is the beautiful specimen you bring me?” Hermione withered a bit under Madame Annelle’s scrutiny. “She iz very thin, but zee skin is nice. Look at zat waist! Mon dieu! So tiny! What are we thinking for colour, hmm?”

“Bleu, no?” Fleur asked, appraising Ella’s complexion. 

“Oui, oui,” Madame Annelle agreed. She turned her attention to Hermione. “For Miss Granger,” Madame Annelle paused. “This ees Mademoiselle Granger, no?”

“Oui,” Fleur replied.

“Zen zee dress ees free, as long as you promise I will do your wedding gown.” Hermione laughed aloud and agreed, “I can guarantee it.”

“Zen eet is decided. I will make you zee most beautiful dress in zee ball. A Muggle dress I must say I see a challenge!” Madame Annelle amended. She magicked off Hermione’s clothes and helped her onto a dais for measurements. While Madame Annelle alternated between measuring tape and her small notebook, she and Fleur rattled off ideas in French, occasionally asking Hermione for input. After Hermione returned to her physical form and put her clothes back on, Madame Annelle showed her a sketch of the design. Hermione gasped and nearly teared up it was so beautiful.

“Can you truly have this done by the twenty-sixth?”

“For you? Of course, Mademoiselle Granger. Without you, zee world is a much darker place. You bring zee light back into life for so many of us, so if I put a smile on your face, eet makes me feel good to do something for you. Now, go prepare to fall in love!” 

Hermione laughed and glanced back at the sketch. Could it be possible to be looked at not as the bookish hero, dumped for Lavender Brown, but just a member of society? No blame from one side and no thanks from the other? It may truly be that for one night she could feel like a princess.       

**.oOo.**

Christmas night was hell. Hermione couldn’t sleep until dawn on the 26th.

_MUDBLOOD_

_Please, no. No, please, please, stop. STOP! I’ll do anything! Anything, please, please, stop!_

_“I want you to scream so loud your filthy Muggle parents will hear you!”_

_Curtains and curtains of tightly-curled and tangled black hair._ _Bellatrix’s fingertips scraping my scalp like talons. Her blade at my throat – my personal guillotine._

_“I’ll leave Potter for the Dark Lord, but the redhead is mine. I’ll carve blood traitor into his skin. I’ll dig his eyes out of his skull with my knife for looking at you like he wanted you. I’ll body-bind him and cut his fingers off, one-by-one so he has to lie there and feel it. I’ll leave him to bleed out slowly. The last thing he hears will be you screaming. The last thing he’ll see is a flash of green, knowing that I’ve killed you and he did nothing to stop me!”_

Hermione woke up at noon, drenched in sweat, clutching her neck and breathing heavily. She collapsed back onto the bed and rolled over so her face was in a pillow. She cried.

“I’m so scared,” she said to no one. “I don’t want to live with this anymore.”

_I want to love someone who understands that I still have nightmares. I want to love someone who understands they will never go away. I need someone who can just hold me until it’s through. Someone that strong. Someone who’s damaged because I don’t want to be a burden; I want to be a source of strength for somebody. Is that too much? Can I find that?_

_I want a family again._

**.oOo.**

The dress arrived in Hermione’s living room at eight o’clock and Fleur arrived minutes later to help her dress. The Polyjuice potion tasted like honey as Hermione drowned the glass. She tried to shake the nervous feeling, but she was frightened to her core. Hermione had the sinking feeling she would not be able to let herself enjoy life in the same place it had nearly been taken from her.

_Four hours._

Fleur opened the box and both of them gasped.

“Stunning,” Fleur said. Hermione nodded in agreement. It had to be magicked on, and Hermione didn’t know how long she could stand upright because it was so tight. The skirt was layer after layer of tulle and organza, and unimaginably heavy.

“Turn!” Fleur demanded, and giggled as Hermione complied. “Eet ees like you are wearing a cloud!”

As Hermione’s dress settled, Fleur motioned for her to pick it up by the front.

“Madame Annelle forgets nothing,” Fleur said as she produced a pair of glass slippers.

“Merlin!” Hermione slipped them on and asked, “Do I look like a princess?”

Fleur leaned over the dress’s skirt to wrap Hermione in a tight hug.

“I ‘ad hoped to have you as a seester, but am happy to help you find love. I ‘ope you succeed!” Fleur let go and helped Hermione to the Floo. She threw the powder at her feet.

“Malfoy Manor.”

As the world whirled around her, visions of the Manor ceiling and a phantom pain throbbed in her neck. She stumbled out of the fire and into the ballroom, nearly tripping over herself a couple times in the unfamiliar shoes. Hermione then stood still and forced herself to take a breath, her gaze not leaving the floor. The music stopped abruptly and a hand appeared in her sightline. She placed her fingers in his to regain her balance.

“Are you alright?”

Hermione’s heart dropped to her stomach as she lifted her head to meet a too-familiar pair of smoky-grey eyes. 


	2. Chapter I: Draco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My only beta is my BFF Spellcheck. I'm still trying to hone in on Hermione and Draco's voices, so they might be a little wobbly. I took "Cinderella Fusion" kind of literally for this chapter, but this is where the concrete similarities to the 2015 movie version end.

_Green, white, green, white, green …_

The ballroom was a blur of red, green, and white. Wizards and witches stood at the edges of the dancefloor, partaking in the Malfoy traditions of great food and even better champagne. Several Christmas trees, both green and white, lined the walls. The far wall overlooking the gardens was almost entirely composed of windows so guests could look out onto the snow-blanketed grounds. A four–tier chandelier hung over the proceedings, ringed by hundreds of levitating candles whose flames caused it to sparkle like stars in the night sky. The Manor ballroom glowed with an aura that would make royalty blush at its grandeur. The excitement of a thousand young, magical people created a steady thrum of anticipation, and the band’s conductor struck a chord from the dais, opposite the room from the fireplace.

_White, green, white, green, white …_

“Stop fidgeting.”

He was nervous. He pulled at the cuffs of his charcoal–grey suit and Blaise raised an eyebrow. Black lapels and black pant seams served to give him some sense of familiarity in the foreign formal clothes. Draco dressed like a Malfoy but he could pinpoint the very moment the Manor stopped feeling like home. Not that it mattered. Not that it ever could feel like home again.

“I am not fidgeting. It’s these damn Muggle clothes.” Blaise and Draco glanced down at themselves, appraising their wardrobe.

“I think we look good.” Blaise insisted. Draco scanned the crowd and quipped, “Nine years on from the Yule Ball and Longbottom still looks like an overgrown penguin.” Blaise laughed. Thank God for Blaise. He was a friend, a buffer, a reality check … His most important role was confidant. When life felt more like a war on every front, Blaise was there to take whatever Draco threw at him. He was there and never asked for anything.

_Green, white, green, white, green_

“He is not who you are looking for. You know it. I know it.”

“You know nothing, Blaise,” Draco replied. A lie. Blaise knew everything, even what Draco refused to admit to himself. His eyes landed on Harry Potter whose arm was around the shoulders of Ginny Weasley. He found Ron Weasley nearby and sneered out of habit, disgusted to see he had, in fact, brought Lavender Brown. Draco rolled his eyes.

_White, green, white, green …_

“Stop counting the trees.”

“How would you know I am counting the trees?”

“Because you have never done anything subtle in your life.” Blaise paused to take a sip of champagne. “How many?”

“Nineteen,” Draco answered without hesitation. Blaise sighed. The crowd swayed to the music, the champagne only beginning to set in, but Draco remained unaffected by the giddiness.

“You are looking for one person, Draco, and it’s best you admit it to yourself. If you’d told your parents, you might have avoided this party altogether.”

“If I told my parents they would laugh me out of the country. Have you got someone picked out, then?”

“Mum’s found a wealthy Italian Muggle-born. Quite pretty, decent fortune—“

“We know that’s what your mother really values,” Draco quipped. Blaise punched him in the arm.

“Best lay off my mum. You’d do well to remember your parents are not particularly gifted at decision–making, either.”

There was a time when that might have wound Draco so tight he would have punched Blaise for disparaging his family, but he was right. No reason to deny it. What good is family if the choices they make only serve to enervate their love? He had so many apologies to make, and he made them all except the biggest. Blaise sighed again, like he read Draco’s mind.

“If she’s not here already, mate, I don’t think she is coming.”

“You’re right,” Draco sighed. “You are right. Now I am supposed to pick some bint out of the crowd and say, ‘Let’s get married!’ Doesn’t work like that. It should not work like that.”

“It has to work like that,” Blaise said. “You just—“ He was cut off by a late Floo arrival. A big puff of blue organza forced its way out of the fireplace. Draco didn’t hear the rest of the sentence as he was off across the dance floor so quickly he might have Disapparated. His desperation, his will for it to be her was embarrassing even to himself.

_Blonde._

Definitely not her. Thankfully, she hadn’t looked up at him because Draco knew his face conveyed that disappointment. She stared at the ground quite intently so he offered his hand.

“Are you alright?” She looked up at him, then, frightened like a doe that had wandered into a wolf den. God, she was pretty. Big lips, caring eyes … Not the woman he was looking for, but beautiful. Her waist was exceedingly tiny, only emphasized by the width of her massive ballgown’s skirt. The dress dipped low in the front and left the tops of her shoulders bare. She was lovely. As if that mattered, because he was already committed. The entire ballroom had watched him run to her like a called House-elf.

“Would you,” Draco cleared his throat and dropped her hand. “Would you care to dance?” 

Her eyes, were it possible, got even bigger. She admitted, “I … I don’t know how.”

Draco smiled a bit. Nineteen trees in the room. Nine-hundred and nineteen candles on the chandeliers. One-thousand seventy-two invited guests. Twelve–hundred gingerbread cookies and only one girl in a blue gown.

“Who are you?” he asked. She shook her head and looked at the floor.

“Nobody. I’m … I’m nobody,” she said and Draco laughed aloud.

“Now that, I know is not true.”

She blushed and replied, “I really can’t dance.”

“Every woman can dance, ma bichette. You just need a man who knows what he is doing.” He again offered his hand. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.” Her intake of breath was audible and Draco realized the music had stopped. The chatter had stopped.

“You speak French?” She asked, her voice wavering noticeably as she placed her fingers atop his proffered hand. Draco grinned as he escorted her to the centre of the dance floor.

“My mother, Narcissa,” he emphasized, “taught me French and Greek. My father said, ‘Wherever people know the Malfoy name, you must have the capacity to tell them you are a Malfoy.’” He hadn’t meant to be so bitter and she sensed his overshare. Her fingers tightened around his.

“What do I do?” She asked. Face-to-face, Draco admitted, “You sound very familiar to me.” Her hand immediately went to cover her mouth. “No, no, no, don’t do that, you were just making this fun for me.” She seemed to retreat even further into herself and he took a step back.

“I apologize if I have frightened you. I am sorry, I didn’t mean—“

“You couldn’t possibly have known.” She shook her head and seemed to resolve an internal dispute before stepping forward so he was almost encircled by the grand cloud of her dress’s skirt. She took a deep breath and asked again, steadier this time, “What do I do?”

“Difficult as it may seem for you,” he smirked, “all you must do is trust me and follow.” 

She nodded and shuddered involuntarily as Draco wrapped his arm around her waist. He guided her to the left, then to the right, just swaying as the music began again. A valse royale—he would need to thank the conductor for that selection. Draco would never have guessed she was new to dancing, but he was correct in assuming she was rather loathe to follow. His left arm remained behind his back, using only his right hand at her waist to guide her from side to side. He turned, then, and brought her along. She watched the crowd spin around her before refocusing her eyes on Draco.

“Is your life always like this? They’re all looking at you.”

Draco laughed.

“These people have known me their entire lives. Many of them hate me and most have good reason to. Trust me, they are looking at you.”

She blushed again. He took her left hand and raised her arm, spinning her around underneath it. Her dress spun after her, looking to the world like a whirlpool. It sparkled like if the daytime had stars, and Draco was stunned to silence by how effortlessly she moved. She smiled like dancing had taken her back to a fond memory and, God, that was beautiful. Not her face, but the light behind her eyes, that joy, like she had forgotten their moment was the focus of a thousand pairs of eyes.

“What were you thinking, just then?” he asked. Her smile widened and Draco led her in another turn to divorce them from the crowd.

_Step, step, step._

“I went to a dance once. Just one, but it was like everything bad in the world didn’t matter. My friends were in danger all the time, I was in danger, but I felt pretty and desirable and safe. Just for a moment.”

Draco stepped away and motioned for her to twirl. She did and the room lit up with “ooh”s and “aah”s as her dress fanned out to its true breadth. She looked and held herself like royalty.

“I feel that now.”

She laughed and it was the most genuine thing Draco had heard in ages. He led her around the dancefloor, allowing her to spin a couple more times to watch the full effect. Then he pulled her back into the waltz frame, leading her to the edges, introducing her to the crowd. She didn’t seem to care much. Her eyes were closed, she was only just gliding wherever Draco led.

_Step, step, step._

_Left, right, left._

When they were side-by-side, he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Having fun?” She nodded and Draco teased, “Do you trust me?”

Her expression then was curious. Her instinctive answer was “no,” that much was obvious. Draco tried to ignore how potent that hurt was. Draco had spent five years learning to push aside the pain that came alongside the reputation of “former Death Eater.” It did not matter he was a child soldier on the wrong side of the gene pool. He shouldered more pain than he caused, but no one cared because he should have tried harder.

He had seen the look on this stranger’s face a dozen times over, but that one was a nail in his ego’s coffin. Draco accepted that he had wronged people. All that remained were apologies and forgiveness, which he made and sought in equal measure. This total stranger’s instinct was to protect herself from him was a stark reminder the world only had one narrative for Draco Malfoy. She caught herself then, and seemed to deliberate.

“I trust you tonight.”

“That’s all I ask, mon ange,” Draco said before setting both hands at her waist and lifting her into a turn. Her face went from fear to joy in a single moment. She laughed again.

“I don’t know what that means, but you may keep saying it. It sounds so pretty when you say it,” she admitted before catching herself in a truth. Her head fell a bit, but Draco lifted her chin and replied, “Tell me your name and I’ll say it pretty.”

Her face went crimson. The blush flowed down her neck, and she would not meet his gaze. Draco narrowed his eyes and pulled her closer by the waist. He spoke lowly in her ear, “Why do I have the feeling people do not compliment you often?” 

“I am frequently complimented, I assure you,” she said like it pained her. “But no one talks to me like that. I never imagined you’d want me like that.”

“You know of me, then?”

“So you could say.”

Draco held her to his side and spun her around, so her feet were off the floor. She smiled like she was floating.

“And I know, without the Marriage Law, you’d never want to marry a—“ She stopped herself. Her eyes got wide again and she shut down … Again.

“You think I’d never marry a half-blood? Or a Muggle–born?” he asked, nodding at her to keep time as they both spun in circles before coming back together. He lifted her by the waist then and the crowd “ooh”ed even more.

“Are you Muggle–born?”

She nodded.

“I cannot blame you for thinking that of me,” Draco admitted. He let her go and she stared at him in disbelief. He bowed, she curtsied, and the music stopped. For a moment, Draco considered walking away. Part of him had hoped he would spot a familiar pair of brown eyes in the crowd, but he hadn’t. His apology must wait another day as the other couples merged onto the floor.  He held out his hand.

“May I show you something?”

She nodded and he led her onto the terrace, leaving the party behind. It was that unique brand of December cold and he shrugged off his jacket to wrap around her shoulders. She stepped away.

“What are you showing me?”

“You see that?” He pointed at a building several metres from the Manor and she nodded. The gardens stretched almost to the horizon. There was a thick blanket of undisturbed snow covering it all. Illuminated by the stars, it was a breathtaking sight. Draco could see his own breaths freezing in little puffs. “That is our greenhouse.”

“I always thought Herbology was useful. Boring, but useful.”

Draco stopped mid-thought. Why did he want to tell her this? What did he gain? What could honesty bring him? But she sounded so familiar, it was almost like Hermione could hear him if he just said the words aloud …

“I burned it,” he blurted out. She narrowed her eyes. _Oh, Merlin._

“You burned what?”

“The greenhouse. I burned it.”

“I don’t understand. Were you obnoxiously cold, or—“

“I always wanted to be like my father,” Draco cut her off. “Always. Since I could think, since I could walk, I wanted to be my father. He is obsessed with blood purity. The entire Malfoy line has always embraced what makes us superior, and blood status is it now. My pureblood friends were mostly like my dad, thinking they were better at magic just because more of it ran in their blood.” She shifted uncomfortably, like she wanted to say something, but motioned for Draco to continue. 

“When you are nine and your parents tell you something that makes you better than most other kids, you want to believe it. When my father told me I was better, it was gospel. The there was a girl at school I hated. She was better than me at everything. Even potions! I love potions and I fancy myself quite good,” Draco stopped as she sniggered. “Find something funny, do you?”

“Just, go on …” she laughed quietly.

“I felt like I hated her. I called her filthy names and made her life hell, if I am being honest. But I could not hate her, not really. Especially now that I know what real hatred is. I had a crush on her for so long, too, because she knew everything and how can you not be a little enamoured by someone who knows everything? Harry Potter would have been dead at eleven were it not for her, believe me.” She laughed then.

“I believe you. You should have told her.”

“She would have punched me in the face.” He paused. “She did punch me in the face.

“At any rate, I was supposed to kill Albus Dumbledore. Did you know that? The Dark Lord sent me to kill him because he knew I would fail. Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard on the planet and I could not even beat Hermione in potions.” Draco absentmindedly ran his fingertips along the railing in front of him, lost in the memory.

“When the time came, when I had him in my sight, wand at the ready … I couldn’t do it. He never wronged me. He even offered to keep my family and I in a safe house, away from the war where we could just wait it out. He did not deserve to die and I just … What kind of a man kills because someone else told him to? Where is the honour in it?”

“There is no justice in killing,” she insisted.

“We can disagree on that, mon chou, but Snape killed Dumbledore for me. He told the Dark Lord I was ready to kill and that he only took the final blow. He saved my family with a lie. That is the only way you can save someone in a war, isn’t it? Deceit?”

She contemplated that question for a minute.

“I don't know. I do know I don't like war." She paused and shivered, but Draco did not believe it was from the cold. "It haunts people long after it's finished. What does this have to do with your greenhouse?” she finally asked.

“That greenhouse is where my demons lived."

She raised an eyebrow and asked, "What do you mean?"

"The Dark Lord did not believe Snape, not for a moment. Now, there is one thing on this planet I know I am better at than Hermione Granger.” 

“What’s that?”

“Occlumency.”

“Occlumency?” She was surprised. Draco nodded.

“The Dark Lord could not get into my mind to see what happened that night. He would never try such a thing on Snape. Not his most trusted, devoted servant. No, that doubt was my burden. He thought I would crack like an eggshell. Every day during the summer between sixth and seventh year, the Dark Lord took me out to the greenhouse for Legilimency. Said he wanted me to forget my pureblood heritage and 'focus on my failure.'” 

“Oh, no,” she gasped.

“I built a wall around that moment and he could not break it down. He would Crucio me. He created visions of men doing unspeakable things to my mother. One day it was just a loop of my father saying, ‘I’m disappointed in you, Draco. You could have done better. You should have done better, Draco. Why didn’t you do better?’” He kicked the terrace railing and she jumped backward. “A hundred times, he did that, and I never let him through.”

“I didn’t know,” she said. She reached for his hand but Draco pulled it away.

“Why? How did you find the strength to--”

“If he knew, he would kill my mother,” Draco said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. She looked surprised at his admission. Did she think him so awful that he would allow Voldemort to see the truth and damn his family? Is that what the world believed of him?

“After the war, I came back here and had to look at the damn thing every day. Just knowing it was out there was painful enough. After a week, I woke up in the middle of the night, walked outside, and set it on fire.” 

She didn’t say anything, just stared at him with those damn doe eyes and a look of pity he didn’t want.

“Some memories just need to burn.” He said it like the most normal thing in the world, but somehow she knew,

“You have nightmares.”

“I am sure we all did.”

“You still have them,” she insisted. 

**.oOo.**

The East Wing felt like the right place to go. It was a feeble attempt to avoid returning to the party, he knew, and it backfired. She looked like she may be sick. She was dizzy, clinging onto Draco’s arm like it was her only support. He hadn’t meant to startle her, unaware at what might have made her so faint. Her head rested on his shoulder and he tentatively held her at the waist. 

“I felt like that here, too. Do you need to leave?” She shook her head. “Some of the older portraits refuse to talk to me for what I did to this room, but it needed to be done for my sanity. I could no longer live with it, but I could not burn it.”

“Why not?” She asked forcefully.

“Because it is my house?” he said like it might not be the correct answer. While the room had changed in appearance, the aura was still there and perhaps that was appropriate. Moving on, moving forward, requires sustained acknowledgement of past wrongdoing. This room would not let Draco forget what happened to Hermione. She eventually motioned for him to continue his narration.

“The girl I was telling you about earlier?” He pointed to a place on the floor below. “They tortured her. Right here, on my floor. My aunt tortured her. My blood, that ‘pure’ blood. I would not even come to this wing of the manor for years,” Draco admitted. He felt naked, as though he laid all his sins out for the world to see.

“You did what she would have wanted,” she said.

“You could not possibly know that,” Draco rebutted. She shook her head.

“But I do. I promise you, I do.”

Draco was stunned by her conviction.

“I took out the entire wall and replaced it with glass because it was too dark. It reminded me of aunty Bella. So dark … I made it into the only thing Granger would have wanted, I think.” 

“A Muggle library.”

Three-hundred ninety-four Muggle books lined the shelves. Eight Muggle paintings lined the walls. Even the four chairs and two tables were Muggle–made.

“I won’t read any of it, but we need to have it. The books, the art … The Marriage Law demands the Malfoy’s line of blood purity is dead, but I wanted to kill it myself.”

“Justice,” she said.

“I told you there is justice in killing,” Draco chided. She forced herself upright and shrugged out of his grasp.

“Thank you.”

He tilted his head in curiosity. _What?_

“For what?” He asked.

“For this. For being willing to do this. For showing me this.”

“I cannot figure out why I did,” Draco admitted.

“She would understand.”

“You say that like you know her.”

“In a way, I do,” she said cryptically.

“Don’t believe I did it for her,” Draco insisted. “I did this for me. I had to stand there and listen to her screaming. I could not do anything. If I moved, if I did not fight on his side, I would have died. My family would have died and believe me when I say I would have done anything to keep that from happening. I sat there and watched my aunt carve ‘MUDBLOOD’ into her skin because my family was more important to me than her pain. Every time I came in here I went back to that moment. I would hear her screaming and aunty Bella laughing. I'd see my father unwilling to do anything and I followed his lead like I always did. Don’t think me a hero.”

She grabbed his hand. Draco looked down at their hands, twined, in confusion. It felt right. Good, even.

“I learned what is important, and I learned what is not. I never asked the right questions because I was afraid my father would be angry. I never pushed back against what my mother told me because I loved her. Then Voldemort used me to torture them. He wanted me to die and he wanted my parents to watch. Blood purity is a sickness and I know that now. I just want to make everything right. After the war, I chose not to follow my father's example any longer. I want to apologize for everything and Granger failed to show so I just—“

“There is nothing to tie you to it, now,” she said. 

Draco laughed, then doubled-over he laughed so hard. He wiped away a tear, he laughed so hard. Draco was borderline hysterical. “You have no idea, no idea what happened to me. I can burn my property. I can redecorate and bring in Muggle books and throw parties, but none of that can alleviate the pain." He took a deep breath and steadied himself before asking, "Have you ever Crucio-ed someone?"

She shook her head. Draco nodded and looked down at the floor

"I am ashamed at how easy it was. Voldemort made me do it, obviously, but I didn't put up much of a fight. That is my biggest downfall--never putting up a fight. Never trying to do what is right and instead doing what is easy. His name was Thorfinn Rowle and he was a foul bastard, trust me on that, but it is no excuse. I held my wand and tortured him. That look I saw in his eyes, I see it everywhere now. People on the street, clients at work, and even you when you first saw me tonight."

"I'm not afraid of you," she insisted.

"Not anymore," Draco replied, "but you were. Can you imagine the life I live? The only people who look at me and see anything worthwhile are my friends. Maybe my parents, but sometimes I think that is just wishful thinking for their only child."

"At least your parents forgave you for those bad decisions," she said.

"Only because they have done worse," Draco retorted. "Memories creep up on me sometimes. Pain in my left arm, mostly. I nearly went mad sixth year, because the year before the Dark Lord made sure I am always tied to his movement. I am tied to my worst moments, as I should be. The pain I live now is my penance for all that I caused.”

Draco didn’t want to do this, but it felt right. She needed to see that nothing would absolve him of this guilt. There was no way for him to forget because it was branded onto his skin. She knew what was coming before he rolled up his shirtsleeve, he saw it on her face.

“The pain of receiving this is nothing compared to the shame of living with it. If there is someone out there for me, who can live with me despite this, that would be a kind of love I have never known.” When he revealed his Dark Mark, he thought she would run. Maybe she’d be disgusted or overwhelmed at best. Instead, he was met with equal parts fury and resolve.

“Give me your arm,” she demanded. Draco stepped backward.

“No.”

“Draco Malfoy, give me your arm or I will hex your bollocks off before you make it back to the party.”

“If I didn’t know any better, you sound just like –“ 

She took his arm and warned, “This will hurt.” 

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you a Christmas present.” She jostled beneath her dress’s skirt until her wand fell. She picked it off the floor with her left hand, holding Draco’s arm in her right.

“You might just kiss me, that’s present enough—Ow! Ow, what’re you—“

_“Accipere Adolebitque!”_

Draco’s arm burned like someone set it atop an open flame. His skin bubbled and he tried to wrench his arm away but her grip was too firm. She winced visibly, but remained calm. Draco’s arm throbbed and turned a violent red, but his Dark Mark began to recede.

“What are you doing?”

“If you want to move on, you should be able to. I’m only returning the favour,” she said.

Draco could not understand but chalked it up to the massive, seemingly endless, nauseating pain in his left arm that took him back to very dark places. He shook his head violently ... Then the pain stopped. Draco glanced upward, but she was not there. He found her on the floor at his feet, barely conscious. Sweat dripped down her face and her skin was hot.

“What have you done?” he asked before sending a Patronus to Blaise, hoping against all hope it would be discreet. Blaise was at his side moments later.

“I don’t know what happened,” Draco said, flustered. “She just collapsed after a spell and I don’t know what she was trying to do and she just … I don’t know … Blaise, help me. Please,” he begged.

Blaise looked at him suspiciously for a half-second. He could probably count the number of times Draco had sounded that desperate on one hand. Blaise looked at her, and narrowed his eyes like he was trying to decipher ancient runes. The Manor’s clock sounded the first stroke of midnight and he spotted Draco’s forearm.

“Your Mark is gone,” he observed.

“What?” Draco asked, looking at his own arm, dumbfounded to see the dark red outline had vanished. “Bloody hell!” Blaise held up her right arm, the mirrored outline of the Dark Mark a stark contrast to her pale skin.

“I found it.”

Draco gasped and took a step backward, shaking his head.

“I didn’t even know there is a spell for that!”

 _The second stroke_.

“Midnight,” she muttered, shifting her head to the other side. “Need to g’ home.” She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand.

“Where is home?” Blaise asked calmly.

“Nowhere. I’m nobody,” she grumbled.

_The third stroke._

“Give me your arm,” Draco demanded. She complied and he helped her up to balance at his side. Blaise looked at him knowingly. Then his expression shifted.

“Is your hair … Changing?” he asked. Her eyes popped open. 

“What are you …” Draco paused, because her hair was changing colour. “Polyjuice,” he cursed himself. “I should have known! Who are you and what the hell do you want with me?”

“Who are you?” Blaise asked her again, slowly, and again she shook her head.

“I’m nobody.”

“You keep lying to me!” Draco shouted in frustration and stood up, leaving her to fall backward and rest her head on the railing. He backed away and she shook her head.

“Never lied. I love you,” she said as her hair quickly turned brown. Draco's mouth fell open.

“What did you say?” He wouldn’t get a response. She Disapparated, accidentally leaving behind a single glass slipper. Blaise stood, glancing down at Draco, stunned.

“I know you. You told her about what happened to you in the greenhouse. You told her all that and you just met her?”

“I told her almost everything,” Draco shrugged. “It felt like I should. It felt like I knew her” Blaise glanced down at the shoe, then back to Draco, like he finally understood something.

“And you have no idea who she is.”

“I don’t even know her name,” Draco lamented.

“Draco, are you in love with her?” In that moment, Blaise saw the visible shift from Draco to Malfoy. He stood, straightened his posture, and ran his fingers through his hair before adjusting his cufflinks.

“I am going to find her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and criticism are always welcome, especially since this is my first work in HP fandom. Thank you for reading!!


	3. Chapter II: Hermione

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My only beta is Spellcheck, so please forgive any errors. Apologies for taking another week for such a short chapter. It's one of those that just wouldn't come out right, no matter what I did to it. I wrote and re-wrote and read aloud and ... These voices are hard, y'all.
> 
> I am enjoying the practice. The internal narratives of these characters are so much fun. I played around with the format in this chapter. Thank you all so much for reading this crazy thought experiment of mine. Your feedback, as always, is valuable.

There is no winning in war, only bits of yourself you lose.

The war might have ended, but it didn’t stop Hermione from decaying bit by bit. She was on the outs with her parents. They said her willingness to manipulate them, to upend their lives was frightening and not the daughter they raised. Four years later, forgiveness was still a dream. Hermione didn’t blame them. Nor did she regret her choices, because at least they were alive.

Ron lost family in the war, but he had not lost himself. His was a different kind of pain, a pain that could be shared. When Hermione tossed and turned in bed, screamed loud enough to wake the entire Burrow, Ron didn’t know what to do. He would stand in the doorway afraid to touch her. Sometimes he’d bring a glass of water, but he never really helped, just avoided the situation until it was over. He never understood. While the world saw he’d left her for Lavender Brown, of all people, Ron was really just moving on. Hermione couldn’t blame him; Ron was whole. Cracked, but whole. She didn’t regret their separation because Lavender was easy for him to love, and Ron was never good with complicated.

Malfoy, it seemed, embraced his own decay. He suffered, Hermione knew that now. She never gave any thought to him before. She never thought about the consequences of being on the proudest, deadliest side of a war. His work was in the Malfoy name, at Malfoy Manor, because those were the things he could control. Perhaps control was his crutch. Regardless of the good he did, his memories would never fade and neither would the Malfoy legacy of darkness.

She realized these things while sitting on her living room floor, dress fanned out around her, the corset nearly bursting at its seams. She sighed and magicked herself out of it and onto her bed. Hermione just wanted a few hours of sleep. Her instinct was, for perhaps the first time in her life, to procrastinate. Maybe life would make more sense in the morning.

It didn't.

Bureaucracy does not sleep, so neither did Hermione. As the sun peeked over the horizon and shone through her window, she pulled on trousers and a sweater before determining there was not time to do anything with her hair. An owl waited outside with her _Daily Prophet_ , and she let it in to drop the paper before it flew away.

She needn’t have bothered as Fleur stepped into her apartment from the Floo, brandishing a copy. _“’Ow could you do this?!”_   she rambled loudly in French. Hermione grabbed Fleur’s paper and instantly realized what had Fleur in a tizzy. The _Prophet_ had always prided themselves on a rapid turnaround time.

The front page above the fold was just a picture with a headline. A rare photo in colour and it showed how truly stunning the dress was, as blue as the sky outside her window soon would be. Hermione glanced over top her couch where it still sat, fanning across much of the floor. She turned her eyes back to the picture of Draco watching as she spun in a circle, dress following behind her like ocean waves. She looked happy, but strangely, so did Draco. They looked unworried and unburdened. They looked like a couple. Then she read the headline:  

> “Mystery Malfoy Mistress”

“You do know who these people are, ‘oo he is!” 

Then the reality of her departure came crashing down. Hermione shook her head, like if she could forget it maybe it never happened. _I love you_.

“I didn’t mean it,” she insisted, but Fleur pointed to the photo.

"I see your eyes, you want ‘eem.”

While Hermione felt that was impossible, she saw her fascination reflected on Ella's face. Perhaps for a moment, a few moments, she allowed herself to think about caring for him. There were whole seconds when she could forget the years of pain at school and Draco’s supporting role in the most horrifying moments of her life. While the man he may be now is not the boy he was, she knew it would take more than a beautiful dress and some contrition to move on.

“ _You ‘ave seen what zey did to Bill,”_ Fleur accused. _“’Ow could you look at ‘eem,”_ Fleur waved the front page,  _“and not see that?”_ Hermione didn’t answer. _“I said you were like a seester, but you cannot be one of us and one of them.”_

Right or wrong, Death Eater versus Order of the Phoenix, Hermione or Ron … Life had evolved into nothing more than a series of battles. Hermione only left one war for another, and this one is just quieter. In that way, she could never be “one of us.” 

“Right, like I’m welcome back at the Burrow any time, am I? Or have you forgotten everyone sided with Ron when he left me for Lavender?”

Hermione felt years of social ostracizing rise to a boiling point. She learned to deal with the postwar mentality without a family to lean on. It all bubbled over and Fleur should not have been the recipient of her anger, Hermione knew, but it felt like a creature of its own will. Her voice rose in decibel and pitch, uncontrollable as she continued.

“He cheated on me, Fleur. Does a single Weasley remember that? Do you understand how that looks? How bad I must be in bed for that to happen? That’s what they ask now. Or how crazy am I? I must have been Lovegood levels of loony to have stood by him. Then, how fucked in the head does Hermione have to be to get dumped by Ron, who pined after her for years? That is my life. Do not pretend I am part of your family, or any family. 

“I chose no one. There are no sides. I should not have gone to the ball, I should not have danced with Draco, and I should have been honest with myself. I can’t even figure why I came to you for help. I know that all of it was wrong, and it is my fault. This is my fault.” Hermione raised her wand. She pointed it at the dress, still on the floor, and shouted, “Sectumsempra!”

Fleur gasped as the fabric seemed to tear itself apart.

“Mon dieu!”

Hermione’s anger morphed from a volcanic eruption into a dangerous, quiet rage.

“You may leave,” she said.

Fleur complied, hustling toward the Floo, no doubt to tell the Weasleys Hermione had finally gone ‘round the bend. Hermione thought pushing away the last Weasley to care would make life easier. It only hurt more. Hermione went to ripping at the dress with her hands and that felt good. Layer after layer, listening to the fabric coming apart instead of watching her life do the same. She kept ripping, kept reminding herself she didn’t love Draco, that she hadn’t meant it. His good could not balance out his wrongs.

Just like her own strengths were not enough to counteract her weakness. Hermione wanted to forget the previous night happened, to cut the square out of the calendar. She tossed the _Prophet_ into the fire before collapsing onto the mass of shredded tulle. Her hair was frazzled like she had taken a stifling-hot shower. Her sweater sleeves were pushed back to her elbows, which she balanced on her knees. Hermione stretched out her forearms to their full length and sighed.

On the left … 

 

> _MUDBLOOD_
> 
> Battle scar. _Dirty. Repugnant. Worthless_.
> 
> _Pain._  

On the right … 

 

> _A mirror image of the Dark Mark: a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth._
> 
> Draco’s battle scar. _Death. Repulsive. Failure._
> 
> _Pain._

They were ugly and brutal: two sides of the same coin. Draco was marked by Voldemort and Hermione was scarred by Bellatrix Lestrange—cicatrices from the same legion of crazy. They were disgusting and looking at them should serve to counteract any progress Hermione had made in her silent war. Instead, looking at them side–by–side, it was like she won a battle. Just a little one, but she had found someone else’s pain equivalent to her own and she had helped him. In that, there was hope.

Hermione soon admitted to herself that she said the words because she saw similarity in his pain. _I love you … because you are as broken as me._ If she could love Draco, maybe she could love herself, and that would be enough.

**.oOo.**

Minister Shacklebolt wouldn’t mind if she was a few minutes late, so she lied there for a few minutes trying her best to become one with the floor until her Floo started up again. She wiped her eyes and frantically stuffed the dress—then little more than a shredded mass—into a nearby trunk. She slammed the lid as Harry stepped out of her fireplace. He looked at her floor, then he looked back at Hermione, and he knew. Hermione held her breath until he threw his copy of the _Daily Prophet_ onto the table.

He quoted, “Draco Malfoy was spotted clamoring for the attention of an unidentified guest at their annual Christmastide ball. Attendees say the youngest Malfoy and this mystery woman shared a dance before disappearing for several hours. We assume the remainder of their evening together necessitated private quarters.”

Hermione picked up the paper and read on.

_After making a late arrival, the unidentified guest was quick to get the youngest Malfoy’s attention with her enchanted dress and plunging bodice neckline. When Draco returned to the festivities, he was alone and unwilling to entertain the attention of any other female guests. Several of those close to him reported he might have been on the receiving end of a Confundus charm, as he repeatedly counted to nineteen._

_No one has confirmed the identity of the female guest, but whispers hint at her being Muggle-born. The elder Malfoy was particularly tight – lipped, but Lady Malfoy could be overheard saying, “I think she is enchanting. Quite a match, there.” Rumours indicate Lucius Malfoy is still fighting the recent implementation of the marriage edict. Are cracks beginning to show in the Manor? Will he allow his son to date, maybe even marry a Muggle–born?_

_Reporting by Rita Skeeter._

“I will rip her wings off!” Hermione whispered into the paper. She turned to see Harry holding up a glass slipper. Hermione had forgotten it was still on the floor; it would have been beneath the gown.

“I wasn’t sure it was you, but now I know …” Harry trailed off as Hermione grabbed the shoe from his hand. She took a deep breath then smashed the heel against the edge of the kitchen sink. Half fell to the floor and shattered, spreading in every direction. It felt good. It felt like control. There was no rational thought to it. Hermione was angry and in destroying the slipper she was destroying evidence she was ever weak enough to say _I love you_. Even more that she was weak enough to say it to Draco Malfoy.

She bashed the shoe again, then again, until there were no pieces larger than a fingernail. The final shards fell to the floor and droplets of blood formed thin lines around several tiny cuts on her right hand. Harry watched the ordeal, arms crossed and leaning on her couch. She swept up the remnants and tossed them in a rubbish bin.

“Hermione, are you okay?” 

Her hands were shaking and she shook her head no. Harry wrapped his arms around her and she broke down, crying into his shoulder. Then her voice shook, too.

"I said something bad, Harry. So bad."

“What, what did you say?” 

She wouldn’t tell him, just shook her head and kept crying.

"It was so good, then I ruined it. He ruined it, too, by being … _"_

“Not a git?” Harry guessed. Hermione wiped her eyes and nodded.

"I did … I did something I shouldn’t have, but I can’t undo it."

Harry raised his eyebrows and adjusted his glasses. He sighed, “Hermione, don’t tell me you had sex.“

 _"_ We did not have sex." 

Harry sighed again, visibly relieved. Hermione gathered herself enough to walk to the couch and curl into its corner.

“We had him all wrong. All we have ever known about him … We didn’t know enough. We never asked questions. Voldemort lived in his home, Harry! How did I miss that?”

“Shocking, yeah, we didn’t give a shit about Draco, who’d been nothing but a great prat for six years. Really, genuinely surprised there, Hermione.” Harry grabbed a nearby box of tissues and offered her one. Hermione took it gratefully. “If I ask you something, will you promise to be honest with me?” She nodded. “Are you falling for him? Even a little?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“I destroy everything related to last night and you think it’s because I might fancy him?”

Harry sighed. He seemed to do a lot of that around Hermione, and she noticed. Balancing his wife and his best friend was not easy, Hermione knew, but Harry was the only friend she had. Was it surprising some small part of her might want to turn to Draco Malfoy out of desperation, just for a moment?

“Do you remember sixth year when Ron started dating Lavender?” Harry asked.

“I try to forget, but somehow it keeps coming back,” Hermione quipped. 

Harry laughed and reminded her she sent a flock of birds after Ron. _He deserved it._

"After he saved me from drowning in the forest, you wouldn’t talk to him except to threaten him because he left at all. You shouted at him, probably would've hit him, too, after he ruined your time at the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum. Hermione, you get violent when love doesn't go your way.”

As much as Hermione wanted to push back, to tell Harry to stuff his wand and his psychoanalysis up his arse, she knew he was right. Harry lifted the lid of the trunk concealing her ballgown and said, “Tell me what I am supposed to see.”

**.oOo.**

Hermione’s desk was a sanctuary from the craziness and stigma of life outside the Ministry. The things that crossed her desk were controllable, marriage edict aside. Policy could be studied, learned, and changed, while life outside could not. Hermione absentmindedly tugged at her right sleeve.

She looked up from her paperwork full seconds before Blaise Zabini stepped through her office doorway. His aura preceded him into a room. He had a preternaturally commanding way of carrying himself, and he was the embodiment of autumn. He had a calming warmth about him, deceptive like a Siren. Beautiful like one, too. His skin was the colour of acorns and he had eyes like apple cider. It was as though he was made of the Earth itself and the universe always put him exactly where he needed to be.

“Good morning, Miss Granger.” He straightened his suit vest. He was in his Muggle clothes from the night before and wore no jacket.

“What do you need?” she asked, clipped.

Blaise glanced at her, frustrated.

“Two minutes of the Minister’s time.”

“I cannot let you in looking like you’ve just been shagging—“

“It’s not like that!” Blaise looked startled by his own outburst. He took a deep breath. “There was an unwelcome guest at Malfoy Manor last night.”

“Was there?” Hermione nervously shifted some papers around on her desk.

“Rita Skeeter, obviously.” Hermione sighed in relief and he gave her a quizzical look. “I don’t know how she got all that information and still made the _Prophet_ ’s deadline. However, Draco is primarily interested in uncovering the identity of a guest who was, shall we say, less than forthcoming.”

Blaise paused and waited for Hermione to look up. He found her gaze and Hermione froze. Her breath caught in her chest. Her fingertips tingled as they instinctively grazed her wand. She held his line of sight like dropping it was an admission of guilt. Maybe it was. Blaise continued, 

“Draco is a proud man. He has his mother’s heart and his father’s wrath, and he will not stop until he finds the person he is looking for. When he does, and he will …”

Hermione feigned disinterest. Blaise wasn’t buying. He stepped forward until he was at the edge of her desk, leaning slightly forward to convey something Hermione was not sure she wanted to understand.

“People should not flirt with this sort of danger, Hermione.”

“In the Minister’s office, I prefer Miss Granger—“

“Yes, it is ‘Miss,’ isn’t it?” Blaise countered, and Hermione recoiled like she’d been slapped. The implication was clear. Blaise’s face was passive; his point was made.

“Draco is smart, you know, but he is almost completely blind to love and to trust. He does not know where to look.” Blaise paused, waiting for Hermione to catch up. “The only people with untraceable Floos like our mystery guest are Ministry employees, and Draco would like to cross reference a list of those people with his guest list.” Blaise lowered his voice. “You know I will not gain access to anything secret, but I have to tell Draco we exhausted every avenue. I need to buy time.”

Hermione shuffled more papers around.

“I’m not sure the Minister will take a last-minute—“

“He will see me. He courted my mum once, before I suggested he look elsewhere. He owes me a favour.”

Sure enough, he was ushered into Kingsley’s office with a resounding, “Blaise!” Hermione only caught bits of the conversation. Not enough to form a conclusion, but enough to know Blaise Zabini was not a wise enemy to make. (A fact she understood at age twelve.) She stood, then, as Minister Shacklebolt escorted Blaise from his office.

“Good to see you, lad.”

Well aware of the Minister’s gaze, Blaise walked to Hermione’s desk and leveled her with a look. Those amber eyes gave away nothing. Hermione was unsure if she had made an ally or an enemy. She was certain, though, he was more than a courier in her drama. Whatever conclusion was reached, whatever action was next, could not be said in front of the Minister. That was obvious, so Blaise just kept looking. Never dropping his sightline, he ran his fingertips down the underside of her right arm before deftly taking her hand and pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles. She swallowed hard, cursing internally.

“Be seeing you, Miss Granger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and criticism are always appreciated.
> 
> The inspiration for the chapter's format and Hermione's narrative is from a fic titled, "A Higher Form of War" by sabrecmc. I highly recommend it.


	4. Chapter III: The English Breakfast Club (Draco)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if this piece ever strays too far into the realm of "Draco apologist." (Side note: I am falling more in love with Blaise Zabini with each chapter.) This chapter is a lot of #plot, but you do get a glimpse into the people Draco trusts, and the dynamic of their NJBC. As always, your feedback is important to me. This is probably the halfway point, so if you don't enjoy this chapter, just give it one more and I hope to bring you right back in. I'm really nervous about this one -- it took a lot of turns. I hope to have more content for you soon. #plot #plot #plot

Draco wasn’t sleeping. Upwards of a dozen bedrooms in Malfoy Manor, but the library was his chamber for the night. Immediately when the guests had begun to take their leave of the ball, Draco grabbed his friends and quickly rambled through what had happened. None of them were thrilled to look for any reference to the spell he couldn’t remember or the girl whose name he did not know. The endeavor was fruitless, but they complied because Draco was their friend and he deserved that much.

It had been dark out when he grabbed the nearest pillow, which was actually Blaise’s suit jacket. As he lay on one of the library tables his mind raced until past dawn. Draco’s face was smashed into the makeshift pillow and Pansy had a book balanced against his backside. All the centuries of knowledge the Malfoy family collected and no mention of a spell to remove the irremovable.

The focus seemed to shift in the early hours, and it began with the arrival of the  _Daily Prophet_. Astoria read it aloud. 

> “Draco Malfoy was spotted clamoring for the attention of an unidentified guest at their annual Christmastide ball. Guests say the youngest Malfoy and this mystery woman shared a dance before disappearing for several hours. We assume the remainder of their evening together necessitated private quarters.”

Astoria rolled her eyes as Pansy mused, “That is not a wholly unreasonable suggestion.”  

> “After making a late arrival, the unidentified guest was quick to get the youngest Malfoy’s attention with her enchanted dress and plunging bodice neckline.”

“It was a beautiful dress,” Pansy said enviously. “Gorgeous, really.”

"Wow, Pans, are you interested? Maybe when we find her, you and Draco can duel for her affection," Blaise teased.

"Shut up, I have found my girl, Blaise," Pansy said before Astoria continued.  

> “When Draco returned to the festivities, he was alone and unwilling to entertain the attention of any other female guests. Several of those close to him reported he might have been on the receiving end of a Confundus charm, as he repeatedly counted to nineteen.”

Pansy, Blaise, and Astoria sighed in unison.

“Draco is not going to like that.”

They were right. Draco had half a heart to rid the world of its Rita Skeeter problem at that moment. No one would miss her insipid columns. That’s what his father failed to impart in Draco: sympathy and a need to see reason. Draco knew, deep—very deep—down, Rita Skeeter was nothing more than an attention whore. At one point in his childhood, Draco might have been similar. Now, he worked actively against his own notoriety while Rita Skeeter fed on hers. As he listened to his friends defend him and discuss how to move forward, Draco felt just a little proud of himself. The loyalty of friends is something Rita Skeeter would surely never have.

Astoria concluded the article.   

> “No one has confirmed the identity of the female guest, but whispers hint at her being Muggle-born. The elder Malfoy was particularly tight-lipped, but Lady Malfoy could be overheard saying, ‘I think she is enchanting. Quite a match, there.’ Rumours indicate Lucius Malfoy is still fighting the recent implementation of the marriage edict. Are cracks beginning to show in the Manor? Will he allow his son to date, maybe even marry a Muggle-born?”

_Mum thought she was enchanting?_

Lucius Malfoy had as much control over Draco’s love life as a turtle can muster over the rising tide. His father’s trip to Azkaban put the estate in Draco’s hands. It put Draco’s future in his own hands.

Draco loved his father but would never forgive him for the choices he made. Choices for which Draco would spend the rest of his life trying to make amends. There were no cracks in Malfoy Manor because, regardless of what people try to hear, Lucius Malfoy had learned to care for the most important thing in the world: Narcissa. Draco’s mother was his father’s first priority, and Draco would not fault him for choosing to live that life.  _The life he should have been living twenty-three years ago._ Lucius only wanted that same love for Draco. The kind of love he squandered for two decades.

Underneath Draco’s curiosity and determination to find his “mystery mistress,” his primal feeling was betrayal. She felt genuine and, not that he would admit it now, but he liked her. She was restrained, like she was afraid to be who she was. Not a Muggle-born, but something less ascriptive. Like God had sent him a peer only for it to be a mirage and Draco was thirsty enough to drink the sand.

His eyes were closed. He did not move except for the tiny up-and-down of his chest, but his mind was filing through everything she said, any bit that might hold a clue. Blaise returned from the Ministry shortly after eight. He seemed frustrated but wouldn’t let on why. Instead, he and Pansy went at it.

“You can’t blame your enemy for exploiting a weakness you neglected. And Draco, of all people, does not get to be surprised when it happens,” Pansy insisted, but Blaise disagreed.

“How is she an enemy? What did she exploit and what did she gain? She had a nice time.”

“I don’t know about that. She told Draco she loved him, must have hit her head pretty hard,” Astoria said, curled in one of the oversized chairs. Draco pushed himself upright and swung his legs over the side of the table.

“You have no right to criticize my ability to charm women. Took all of ten minutes before I had you undone, and when I say ‘undone’ I am being delicate.”

“I was in a dark place,” Astoria countered.

“ _So was I,”_  went unsaid, but silently reverberated throughout the room. Draco stood and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Anything?”

Nothing.

“You know who to ask,” Pansy said, tossing a book aside. “You know the person who knows more spells than a third of the world put together. Hermione would know—“

“No,” Draco cut her off with a stern look. Pansy stood, angrily.

“Then what is the point? Are we trying to find the spell or find the girl? You have had us running in circles for hours now. We haven’t been home in a day, Hermione could help.“

“I said no, Pans!”

“Why?”

“He wants it to happen organically,” Blaise answered and Pansy sighed.

“After five years? You don’t think … I hate to say, Draco, I know you have grown into a better man, but maybe she is avoiding you,” Astoria pointed out.

“Of course she’s avoiding him.”

“I know that, everyone knows, which is why that bloody termite, Rita Skeeter, had her feelers out last night. If Hermione had shown, well, it is always a drama, is it not?” Draco picked up Pansy’s castaway tome and replaced it on a shelf.

“Why isn’t the man you've become enough?!” Astoria persisted.

“Because everything I did to the Wealseys, to Potter, to everyone else, is something I can apologize for, it is something to be learned from. Their forgiveness I can earn by being a good man. I try to make amends for the wrongs of my family, my father, but those were not my mistakes to right. That is different.

“What I did … being a bystander to what I witnessed … to Hermione’s … I don’t have the words.” He sighed and rested his head in his hand for a moment, like a defendant about to confess. “There is no clemency for bystanders, only contrition. I would be asking for something, her forgiveness, I have no authority to request. She has to offer it.”

“I just spoke to her at the Ministry, and she may be in more of a forgiving mood than you think,” Blaise said. 

Draco looked at each of them in turn before saying, “Drop this. Drop it now.”

The library was soundless in acquiescence. Astoria yawned then Pansy asked, “You are serious about finding this girl?”

Draco didn’t answer. He thought he was, thought he needed to find out what she wanted and why she came. But she had done something remarkable, hadn’t she? Draco looked at his arm, still bright pink and rough, but Mark-less.

“She said she was returning the favour. I don’t do favours,” he said to no one in particular.

“Well I do,” Pansy said. “And someone owes me.” 

 **.oOo.**  

The sudden Apparition of four young adults in a London alleyway turned more than a few heads.

To be fair, the four of them would have been a spectacle almost anywhere. Pansy’s long black hair was pulled to one side, exposing the non-existent back of her tight black dress. Blaise was magnetic on his least impressive days and Astoria’s green dress stood out against the muted colours of London streets. Draco, too, was impossible to ignore with his white-blonde hair and regal Malfoy posture. The anarchist, the Fall, the serpent beneath, and the prince stood outside a sketchy building in a wayward part of the city. Draco narrowed his eyes at the placard.

“Peter Henry? Why did you bring us to a dolt with two first names?”

“Private detective,” Pansy replied. “Owes me a favour.” She led them up a narrow stairway and opened the door to a rather dark and dingy office.

“Out!” Pansy shouted at the two people, clients presumably, sitting on the side of the desk closest to the door. They looked at each other, then at the weasel-faced man behind the desk. “Did I stutter?”

They hurriedly vacated the room and Astoria slammed the door behind them. The man behind the desk muttered, “Cripes.”

The man, Peter Henry most likely, was unkempt to the nth degree. His button-down was two sizes too big, but the tightness of his pants around his waist indicated his affinity for finding the bottom of a bottle. Cigarette butts were discarded around a trash can and the office smelled like the unfriendly end of a Hippogriff.

“Henry,” Pansy perched on the edge of his desk. “I’ve come to collect.”

The others sat (delicately) on a chaise lounge against the far wall. The scene played out like a piece of performance art.

“I won’t let you blackmail me forever, Miss Parkinson.” Peter Henry said, but his voice wavered and Draco knew Peter Henry had moved from “pawn” to “prey.” Pansy leaned across the desk, then, to adjust his collar.

“It is not a question of whether you will let me, but who is going to stop me? Hmm?” When Henry didn’t answer, she slammed a copy of the  _Daily Prophet_  on his desk. “We need to know who she is.”

Peter Henry narrowed his eyes at the front page. “Yeah, I saw this a few hours ago. Is this a joke? I’m not gonna be happy if you kicked out clients just to go down the block.”

“Down the block? What do you mean?” Pansy asked. Peter Henry laughed. Then he wheezed and smacked his palm on the desk. “Shut up!” Pansy demanded. “Astoria?” Pansy gestured to her and Astoria immediately leapt from her seat to Pansy’s side.

“This girl was Polyjuiced,” Astoria said, placing her purse on top of the desk.

“That does make things interesting, eh?” Peter Henry leaned back and smiled mischievously. He had a few teeth missing and when he put his hands behind his head there were visible underarm stains. Draco’s discomfort was evident on his face in such an infra dig place.  _Desperate times._  Pansy continued,

“We have a problem. See, none of us can go around asking questions without attracting attention. We need to find out who she is, and we even have a clue for you.” Astoria produced the glass slipper from her purse and placed it on the desk in front of Peter Henry. He got so close he nearly put his nose in it, and his eyes were the size of teacups.

“You didn’t tell me this might be fun, Miss Parkinson.” 

“You even attempt to sell this shoe and I will report you to the Ministry for illegal distribution of magical creatures, which we both know I can prove, and I will set fire to this dump you call an office.”

Peter Henry nodded, sufficiently chastised.

“How long will this take?” Astoria asked. Peter Henry shrugged.

“’Bout two weeks?”

“You have one,” Pansy said, before walking toward the door.

“I’ve got other cases!”

“No, you don’t,” Astoria said. She picked up her purse and followed Pansy out.

As Blaise and Draco stood to follow, Peter Henry mentioned, “Aye, you two, if you want a head start, might want to grab a cuppa down the block.” Blaise rolled his eyes but Draco sensed a hint of truth.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’d know that face anywhere,” he pointed to the photo on front of the  _Prophet._  “And I’m telling you the place down the block has good tea.”

Draco nearly ran out of the office and down the stairs. He briefly paused, got knocked around by some passers-by, until he saw a teacup on the sign at the corner. The others lagged a bit as Draco gracelessly flung himself through the shop door.

The girl, his girl, was there behind the counter. It made more sense than anything in the past twelve hours because it had to be something this innocuous. She was standing there serving coffee. Except, she wasn’t. That girl would not know the difference between a knut and a galleon, let alone that everyone in the wizarding world had an opinion of him, one way or another.

Draco could see this girl was exceptionally kind, because when he approached her to order there was none of the fear he saw only hours earlier. Much less any recognition.

“Can I help you?”

Her voice was different. How did she sound so familiar before? Like a potent memory just a hair’s breadth out of reach.

“Tea?”

“We have lots of tea, sir,” she teased. “What kind would you like?”

“Whatever you suggest is perfect,” Draco said.

“It’s on the house, then. For you and your friends.” She leaned closer and asked, “They are your friends?”

“Most of the time,” Draco replied. He glanced back at Astoria, Pansy, and Blaise. They were completely relaxed, though they had the rapt attention of, well, everyone. As he glanced back at the girl, he agreed with his earlier assessment that she was pretty. Even outside the giant gown and with her long hair pulled back in a messy bun, she was pretty. However, he was not attracted to her and the realization hit him hard.

It just was not her. Hours ago he felt in his veins that she, too, had been scared beyond her own life. Like she might have walled off parts of her memory because otherwise she would live in a world of red. This girl was almost too optimistic and kind. Fate might have been cruel enough to dump her on this side of town, but she knew nothing of real horror. If he had any control, Draco would not bring that kind of pain into anyone else’s life.

“Long night,” she guessed as she poured the tea into cups. Draco laughed sardonically and said, “Seems like ages ago.”

“You know, you remind me of someone. All of you, but especially you. Dressed all fancy like she walked out of a magazine. She had your hair and your, you know, stature.”

“Mother,” he muttered.

“She’s your mother?” 

Draco nodded stiffly and asked, “Did she meet with someone?”

“Boy and a girl. Can’t really remember them, though.”

“Please,” Draco almost begged. “If you remember at all.”

But the girl, Ella by the nametag, shook her head. He was visibly disappointed as she handed him his cup. Draco chose a small table at the back of the shop. Astoria, Pansy, and Blaise took their seats as Draco revealed, “She was here.”

“The girl?” Pansy asked.

“Along with another man and my mother.” 

Blaise had a strange look in response, like his plans had shifted. Something was off about his tone when he asked, “So your mother knows who she is?”

“More importantly, she knew yesterday when Draco met the girl,” Pansy said. “At least you know your mum likes her.”

“Mum fell in love with my father, so forgive me for being a tad skeptical about how much weight I give to her approval.”

“At least you can narrow down the list,” Astoria offered hopefully. “Muggle-borns your mum knows and approves of, yeah?” Draco sighed with his entire being as he replied, “Which narrows the list to zero.” 

 **.oOo.**  

Draco got his penchant for stubbornness from his mother. As he, his friends, and Narcissa stood around a dining room table set for lunch, his frustration reached a boiling point.

“You must tell me whom you saw!”

He sounded every bit the whiny teenager he previously believed he outgrew. He was desperate to know the identity of this mystery woman.

“I ‘must’ do nothing, Draco. You danced, you had a wonderful time, and unless you want to see her again, there is not much I can help you to do.”

Silence. Everyone saw how the trap had been set. Pansy and Astoria might have applauded were their loyalty not bound to Draco. He either had to lie and say he never wanted to see her again, or admit he fancied a Muggle-born. His mother knew the answer, she only wanted him to say it. Draco saw no way out but to pivot.

“You know it is her. You know it is whomever you met there, you are sure of it.”

“Draco, do not be so presumptuous,” Narcissa chastised halfheartedly.

“I want to find her.”

“Why do you want to find her?” His mother asked, genuinely curious.

“Because she tricked me,” Draco lied. Astoria forcefully nudged her elbow into his arm and Draco amended, “Ow! Alright, she … she did something for me and I need to thank her.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that is all,” Draco insisted. His mother sat, then, effectively ending the conversation.

“Mum, please! Who is she?”

“Draco.”

It was a quiet command. Much to Draco’s surprise, it came from Blaise. He looked at Draco with a knowing expression, and even Pansy’s eyebrows were raised in surprise. Astoria, sensing the tension, clutched her purse a little tighter. The whole room seemed to stop moving, the air entirely still until Blaise said,

“Do not ask questions if you cannot handle the answer.” Then he took a seat at the table.

Draco looked at his mother and asked, “At least tell me, was it true? The report, it said you thought it was a great match.” He fiddled with the top of his chair and couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze for a moment, afraid of what the response might be. Not that his mother knew everyone at Hogwarts or could possibly have known everyone at the ball. But if it was someone she knew well, and someone she liked, there might be hope. Draco knew he was clinging to threads, but his mother and Blaise shared a look.

Blaise nodded in unspoken agreement and Draco’s mother said, “Extraordinary.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and criticism are always appreciated. Thank you so much for reading this crazy AU experiment!!


	5. Chapter IV: "Burn" (Hermione)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione goes on a scavenger hunt and finds more friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *strangled wheezing* Okay so this is more #plot #plot #plot. I promise the next chapter will be less so. This one weaves a tangled web and I'm afraid you might struggle through it. I had to do some world building. Everything is gonna come together and it's all gonna make sense. Eventually. Like, it wasn't supposed to get this complicated but I'm becoming more Dan Brown less Walt Disney. 
> 
> That being said, the emotional payoff?? Next chapter. It's gon' be good. (I hope. I have a lot of self-doubt about this crossover and these chapters just don't do what I want them to do sometimes.) Please, if it's getting to be a little cramped up in here for a Disney fusion, let me know. Your feedback is SO important and if you'd rather not leave it here on AO3, you can hit me up on Tumblr at queenofstarkness.

Everyone loses in the race against time. There are no exceptions, no rule-breakers, only the continuous march toward an unidentifiable endpoint. As a child who danced around her own end a dozen times, Hermione lived non-stop. It was not until dark that the terror came rushing back. Dusk acted as a reminder Hermione’s own twilight would come and she would not have time to learn, invent, or do more.

Saturdays were the quietest days of the week at the Ministry, and the silence was stifling. There were no memos flying about and the lifts did not sing their obnoxious chorus of creaks and dings. So Hermione was to sit outside the office of the man for whom she harbored increasing resentment. The marriage edict set fire to Hermione’s future, and while it was not his idea, the Minster lit the match.

She huffed as her daily request to repeal the law was met with a curt, “No.” Hermione’s day continued in its typical mundane manner until one of her aides approached with a quizzical look on their face. They presented her with a memo written on green stationery.  

> “Katie Bell requests your presence at breakfast tomorrow, the 29th of December.”

Unsigned. 

 **.oOo.**

Sundays are, by far, the best days for breakfast and Katie Bell was a damn fine cook. When Hermione walked in, the house smelled strongly of bacon. The legacy of S.P.E.W. lived on, it seemed, as Katie Bell’s House-elves were nowhere to be found.  Katie had a house--not a flat, but enough of a life and a future to have a house. Well lived-in, too, by the looks of it. There were a couple books left discarded on the living room sofa. In fact, there were a couple of several things: two umbrellas in the stand by the door, two pairs of slippers on the stairs, two invitations to a Hogwarts alumni event in the stack of mail,  …

Hermione smiled as Katie placed a plate of pancakes on the table, but it faded as a large file folder was placed next to it. As Katie took her seat, Hermione asked what was inside.

“Pans said you were looking into the real estate at Knockturn Alley.” When she was met with Hermione’s blank stare, she said, “I think we’ve been had.” After Hermione asked why Knockturn Alley’s real estate would interest her, Katie shrugged. "If the Minister’s office requests something, I get it to you.”

Katie was content to eat in silence as Hermione flipped through each of the holding overviews. Almost all were in the Malfoy name. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Borgin. Malfoy. Malfoy.

“I didn’t realize the Malfoys were in property development,” Hermione said. When Katie asked where Hermione thought they made their money, her response was, “Blackmail?” Katie laughed and Hermione admitted she never gave it much thought.

“They own all the property there except for Borgin & Burke's and some shop that deals in slug repellent. They didn’t own the businesses until about four years ago. Before then they just owned the leases. I’m not allowed to discuss their current status.”

“Are they under investigation?” Hermione asked before unceremoniously stuffing a forkful of pancakes in her mouth. Katie sighed and put down her cutlery.

“It can be hard to put aside stereotypes, I understand, but the world is wrong about the children of former Death Eaters, Hermione. They were kids! It was line up for die for most of them and they are trying to be better now. I can’t tell you how I know, but I do. They’re damaged people but they are trying to do good in a world that won’t let them.”

Hermione ate a few more mouthfuls of pancakes to hide her disbelief, but it spilled over anyway.

“How can you defend Draco and his friends? You almost died because Draco made a mistake!”

“He was desperate, but we all were,” Katie replied. “He apologized and I can’t hold onto that blame forever. If Voldemort told me to kill Dumbledore or watch my family die, could I have said no? I didn’t have to make that choice, Draco did. I got caught in the crossfire.”

_Some memories just need to burn._

“I wish it hadn’t been me in the bathroom, but if it wasn’t me it would have been someone else. Who would take my place? Lavender? Cho? Alicia? Given the chance, I couldn’t pass my pain onto them either. It was Voldemort’s fault. He created the circumstances that forced Draco to do what he did to me. Voldemort’s dead and so is my blame. I am happy to have my enemies become my friends. Draco, especially, is making a difference for the better—“

“In Knockturn Alley?” Hermione doubted.

“When was the last time you were in Knockturn Alley? You should see it.”

Hermione hadn’t been in six years and had no intention of returning.

“Not likely.” 

 **.oOo.**  

Except Mondays are when the world turns “not likely” into fate.

Lost in the time after the war, when the world was in pieces, were those who had no one to return to, nowhere to go, and nowhere they were wanted. Children needed new homes and spouses needed time to grieve. While some needed to patch their lives up, others lost their livelihood altogether. Someone needed to ease the burden. Minister Shacklebolt requested Hermione meet with the head of CROW, The Centre for Refugees, Orphans, and Widows, about subsidizing the orphan children division.

CROW was established in the months after the war as the “Centre for Orphans and Widows,” but it evolved into a permanent rebuilding effort. (A rumour persisted that the founding members were simply not fond of the acronym, "COW.") The charity was to be honoured for its work with orphaned children on May 2nd at the Ministry’s annual charity gala. The centre was the largest effort of its kind ever attempted in the wizarding world and was widely-acclaimed. Hermione made annual donations, small ones conditional upon anonymity. That caveat was unsurprising since the board itself operated anonymously.

People walking by 1100 Knockturn Alley that Monday might have glanced a befuddled Hermione Granger pulling a file from her briefcase to double-check she had the right address. CROW occupied half the one-thousand block—an address she’d seen a day earlier in the real estate file handed to her by Katie Bell.

Knockturn Alley was practically indistinguishable from Diagon Alley, then dusted with snow. Gone were the sketchy hags hawking fingernails, replaced by a sweets cart and a man handing out fliers for a St. Mungo's blood drive. Hermione was greeted by the Chief Operations Officer of CROW, and Hermione opened the door to reveal … Astoria Greengrass? Hermione shook Astoria's hand, eyebrows raised.

“You head operations here?” she asked, and Astoria nodded before whisking her into the back office.

The centre was fantastic. Hermione visited shortly after the war when they operated out of a room in the Leaky Cauldron, but the centre had since expanded. There were at least fifteen staff working at small desks, papers piled high and memos flitting about overhead. As the door shut behind Hermione, Astoria gestured to the seat in front of her desk. She sat behind it and folded her hands, so Hermione pulled the file from her briefcase.

“What is this?” she asked. Hermione was taken aback.

“What do you mean? My office should have called ahead. They told me I had an appointment.”

“We play this game every year, Miss Granger, and would like it to stop. If this is another attempt by the Ministry to make our donors’ names public, I must insist—“

“What do you mean?” Hermione repeated. “Nothing was mentioned to me about that stipulation. I’m here to discuss subsidizing a portion of the business.”

“It is not a business, Miss Granger. At the end of every year, some Ministry flunky makes an appointment to force us to disclose our donors under threat of litigation. Do you believe we are thick-headed enough to think you would bring a charity’s board before the Wizengamot? We do not turn a profit here and I resent the Ministry trying to wrangle us into disclosing our donor rolls by dangling an offer we would be morally obligated to accept,” Astoria replied. She seemed genuinely offended and Hermione’s confusion deepened.

“What back-end business are you involved in where you wouldn’t want to disclose your donors?” she asked. Astoria smiled sardonically and pointed at Hermione.

“That,” she said. “That is the reason we will not disclose them. While you may find my past, and that of our board, unsavory, we do good work here. I will not allow it to be questioned and ultimately hampered by disclosing who funds the centre.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. A web began to form in her mind, connecting dots that would bring the world back around to one she knew.

“This centre must be a front for something. I know who owns the lease,” she insisted. Astoria’s reply was venomous.

“We have found homes for over twelve-hundred children in four different countries in the past four years, Miss Granger. We provide shelter to people who have lost their spouse and to those with nowhere to go, then we help them search for employment. I will not allow the Ministry to set fire to our accomplishments simply because they want to stick their noses in other peoples’ work. CROW is the only way some of us know how to make a difference. This charity is not a front, but your assumptions are an affront to our charity.”

Hermione slumped in her chair, sufficiently chastised. Perhaps Astoria was correct, but how could any of this make sense? Hermione pulled the real estate filings from her briefcase and spread them across Astoria’s desk. Time is the primary ingredient in growth. Growth of a business or growth of a person, the progression of time acts as a melody for development. 1000 and 1200 Knockturn Alley were consolidated into one building three years earlier: 1100. Two and two were coming together, and Hermione wondered how she hadn’t seen the obvious before. She tilted her head to one side and huffed, “How did the Board of Directors get Malfoy to approve the consolidation?” 

“The families of Parkinson, Malfoy, and Zabini are the board.”

Hermione’s head snapped up from the scattered papers.

“What?”

“The three members on CROW’s Board of Directors are Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy, and Blaise Zabini,” Astoria said quietly, like the walls had ears. Hermione’s eyes widened and she sensed regret creeping up. “In addition to their youth and inexperience dealing with family fortunes, you can understand why this needs to be kept in-house.”

“You’re telling me the charity established to support victims of the war is bankrolled by the families of Death Eaters,” Hermione confirmed. Astoria nodded and Hermione slumped backward in her chair. She shook her head and muttered, “I have been so wrong.”

“If the Ministry wishes to subsidize a division—“

“It will not be conditional upon revealing the donor roll,” Hermione said. “I promise.”

Astoria eyed her cagily. Hermione did not wither, instead electing to restack the papers in their respective file folders. Hermione placed her elbows on the edge of Astoria’s desk and asked, 

“Why not make it public? Say they’ve done these good things because life shouldn’t be as hard for these kids, these people, as it was for us. The world would understand.”

Astoria did not reply at first. “No, they would not,” she finally said. “Blaise was right about you,” she assessed before standing up to open the door for Hermione who slammed it shut.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you are scared. You are just as affected by this Marriage Law as the rest of us, and powerless to stop it. I allowed you see what we do. Everyone one else in the world? All they see is darkness and they think everything we touch must be evil. If we do any good, it will be overshadowed by our reputation. We are circumspect because these people we help are undeserving of the lot life has cast them, we have the resources to make life easier, and we do not want them afraid to come here because of the family names. Blaise thinks you hide things, too. We walk a fine line, Hermione, and maybe you have been through enough to understand. You keep your secrets where we keep ours.”

Hermione shook her head.

“You need to partner with someone, an ambassador. Ask Harry; I know he loves this place. He will do it. Present a united front and the world will change.”

“An ambassador?” Astoria asked, like the seeds of a scheme were being sown in her head. “Has anyone ever said you are rather bright?” she joked. Hermione rolled her eyes and exited.

Time cannot be stopped. The marriage edict could not be stopped. As Hermione walked out of the Centre for Refugees, Orphans, and Widows, she was determined to see that neither time nor bureaucracy would stop the good being done there. 

 **.oOo.**       

 

> **Memorandum to the Minister of Magic, to be Made Available for Public Record**
> 
> **Regarding:** Subsidization of the Orphan Division of the Centre for Refugees, Orphans, and Widows (CROW)
> 
> **~~By:~~** ~~Hermione Granger~~ (REDACTED)
> 
> **Dated:** December 31 st, 2002

The Centre for Refugees, Orphans, and Widows located at 1100 Knockturn Alley is the quintessential example of the goodness of wizardkind. From the rubble of the Second Wizarding War, those who retained their wealth came together to help those who lost the most important parts of their lives. By using their fortune to help those who lost everything, CROW reminds us evil dies with its perpetrators but our kindness lives on long after our time is through.

Since its inception in 1998, CROW has found homes for 1,247 orphaned children. They have relocated seventy-two families and an additional fourteen refugees from the furthest places touched by the war. Their core donor base has contributed over four hundred thousand galleons to this effort without turning a profit.

Of note is the special attention provided to children under age eleven. CROW has a program for orphans and families with young children to ensure they are prepared and have the resources to attend Hogwarts. They are provided a seventy-five galleon allowance for a wand, textbooks, robes, and other necessary school supplies. By ensuring all students get the education they deserve, the Centre for Refugees, Orphans, and Widows is making sure the wrongs of wizards past will not harm our future. No student will be hindered as a consequence of the Second Wizarding War.

It is my recommendation that CROW’s Orphan Child division be fully subsidized without condition by the Ministry of Magic. In its four-year tenure, CROW has demonstrated a stalwart commitment to integrity and fair practices, eschewing prejudice for tenderness. Their on-the-ground infrastructure rivals the Ministry at its best and their location has bettered the surrounding community. CROW also promotes international cooperation, working with governments in England, Northern Ireland, Scotland, and France. When the world seemed to burn, CROW was there to help. If the only way to save someone during a war is deceit, the only way to save them after the war is with compassion. I am confident CROW will continue their good work in the years to come.

I recommend the Orphan Child Division of the Centre for Refugees, Orphans, and Widows be fully subsidized, effective at midnight on January 1st, 2003. 

 **.oOo.**  

Hermione had been enslaved by December, but she found her voice somewhere along the way.

Five …

Four …

Three …

Two …

One …

The first hour of 2003 came and went uneventfully. Hermione curled up on one end of her couch, reading the new Gilderoy Lockhart memoir, _Life After Obliviate_. New Year’s Day may be a hangover for much of the world, but for Hermione it was a day of celebration. She received an owl from the Minister early on January 1 st, announcing her recommendation had been accepted. CROW was officially a Ministry-subsidized charity.

Hermione had a single glass of firewhisky in celebration. _No one needs to know._ Harry popped by later that afternoon and they may have split the bottle. _No one needs to know._

In the evening, she lifted the lid off her trunk. Had it only been six days? Six days since Madame Annelle’s creation arrived in her living room. Five days since she’d torn it to shreds. Then a four-day hunt to prove Draco Malfoy is as shadowy as his surname suggests, only to find that her own prejudice kept her from recognizing his good intent.

Hermione dragged the trunk a few feet until it was next to the hearth. She took the scraps of blue fabric, bundled them in her arms, then draped them overtop the logs. She pointed her wand at the fireplace and thought,

_Incendio!_

There was an emerald hue where flame met blue silk. Hermione sat cross-legged and watched as the fire nipped at the edges of the fabric pile before slowly turning it all to cinders. The colours were beautiful, but as Hermione watched the fabric crumple it was a grim reminder. A reminder of how she felt existence in the public eye could be dealt with while she shriveled to the bleakest version of herself at home. Gone was the version of herself that was afraid of everything she couldn’t do. Gone was the version of herself that cared what the world believed her to be. As for the world’s perspective?

 _Burn._  

 **.oOo.**  

January 2nd is when New Year’s resolutions die, and had Hermione resolved to buy fewer books, she would not have succeeded. That morning, as she resolved to bring a legal case against the marriage edict, she went straight to her favourite resource: literature. She walked out of Flourish and Blotts under the weight of _Law & Literature,_ _Magical Moral Perspective, A Legal Compendium 198,_ and _A Fully Illustrated History of the Flying Carpet._

Hermione saw Ron talking to Katie Bell on the street, not far from the entrance to Flourish and Blotts. With no time to duck back inside, she made herself as small as she could, watching them from along the shop’s window with the books weighing down her arms. She hoped to stop inside CROW and deliver the good news, but could not continue to Knockturn Alley without being spotted.

Then Pansy Parkinson appeared and whispered something in Katie’s ear. She giggled and Ron looked like he’d been slapped. Lavender Brown appeared next to him as Hermione shifted the weight in her arms, moving her wand to her right hand and letting the books rest on her left hip. She turned to go as soon as Malfoy appeared alongside Blaise Zabini.

But then there was shouting, lots of shouting, and Hermione couldn’t make out much. Ron grabbed his wand and chaos ensued. Draco immediately stepped in front of Pansy and Katie, hands in the air trying to defuse the situation. Pansy pulled her wand as well, and Hermione knew the light behind Ron’s eyes as well as _Hogwarts: A History_. He had committed.

Hermione's wordless _Protego Maxima!_ created a barrier between Ron and Draco so strong it knocked everyone off their feet. Passers-by looked for the source, and twelve pairs of eyes landed on Hermione before she could cast a Disillusionment charm. Part of her wanted to run or Disapparate because she hadn’t spoken to Ron or Lavender in years. Hermione’s heart dropped to her stomach, just as it did a week earlier, and she nearly dropped her books when her gaze locked on a familiar pair of smoky grey eyes.

She realized that in the race against time, love wins. Casting a protection charm was instinctive because love wins. Love exists and it is defined and it is not a temporary thing. It is not a faucet able to be turned on or off, much less controlled in any way. Hermione figured out that level of compassion felt like playing with fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last bit? Yeah, will be explained in the next chapter. Little bit of a cliffhanger for you, and you'll get the whole confrontation from Draco's POV. Don't be afraid to tell me if it doesn't make sense, if it sounds too pretentious or OOC. I'm still struggling with Hermione's voice so if it feels off to you, it may be. 
> 
> Comments and criticism are always welcome.


	6. Chapter V: "Forgiveness? Can You Imagine?" (Draco)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Shouting]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time: I had totally forgotten Lavender Brown died at the end of DH. Whoops. So, just gloss over that. Also, I know Draco can't produce a Patronus in canon, but the idea of a Cinderella fusion is centred around two things: hope and kindness. Draco is not a kind person; he represents hope. If you cannot produce a Patronus, from where would you derive hope? I did manipulate that bit.
> 
> The chapter theme is forgiveness. I need you all to forgive me for the typos, the canon manipulation, the terrible descriptions and plot that sometimes sneak through because it's way too early in the morning for me to catch them ... This is such a crazy fic endeavour for me, so I appreciate all of you who have stuck with it. Thank you.

The evil that men do lives after them, and Draco was exhausted from carrying generations’ worth of that weight. The Malfoy name always evoked “shady” and “opportunistic,” but it was not until Draco’s father fully embraced evil that the family was damned to carry darkness like a burden.

Nothing much happened since Friday, and Draco’s life had entered a kind of stasis. The last six days passed like he was watching from behind glass, completely disassociated from his own reality. As he and his friends strode through Diagon Alley, wizards scattered like a group of rats in rain.

The week had been frustrating on several fronts. According to Pansy, there was nothing to be heard from Peter Henry. Astoria revealed his status as CROW’s founder to Hermione Granger and called an urgent meeting of the board, which was their reason for being on the way to Knockturn Alley. It was the icing on top of the cake when they ran into the Weasel-bee and Lavender Brown.

The resentment Draco had for Ron Weasley was seconded only to that he held for his own father. It was so potent it could be felt secondhand, through his friends. Lavender Brown, at Weasley’s side, looked like she wanted to be there with the group even less than Draco. Normally the group would have paid Weasley no mind, except he was talking with Katie Bell and Pansy was too territorial to dismiss it. When Pansy approached to whisper something in Katie’s ear and grab her hand, Ron got a sort of confused Troll look on his face. (Pansy would later tell Draco it was a dirty joke about Beaters.) Weasley asked, 

“You’re with Parkinson?”

“About a year now, yeah,” Katie confirmed with an adorable smile to Pansy.

The confused Troll look did not fade and Lavender shifted uncomfortably as Weasley blurted out, “Why?”

“Because I can be loyal to my girlfriend,” Pansy quipped.

Lavender and Katie gasped. Blaise leaned closer to Draco and whispered, “That was a good one.”

As if Pansy needed anything to stoke the fires of her Weasley disdain. She knew Ron would get riled up seeing one of his friends with a Slytherin. (One of a former Death Eater family, to boot.) Pansy’s problem had always been how much she loved chaos and Weasley's reaction was precisely as she intended. His face went from confused Troll to angry Troll as he shouted, “Take it back!”

“Calm down, Ron, people are staring,” Lavender whispered.

“Yes, Won-Won, what is it they used to sing for you back when you could play Quidditch?” Pansy taunted. “‘He never leaves a single ring?’ Unless it’s on Granger’s finger, of course.”

Draco immediately stepped between Weasley and the girls when he saw Ron reach for his wand. Pansy drew hers as well and Draco put his hands up.

“Life was hard for both of us and I made a mistake!” Weasley insisted but did not lower his wand.

“Well, unlike you, I learn from my mistakes,” Pansy said over Draco’s shoulder. Draco was about to say something, but there is nothing to combat Pansy’s taunts. That’s why everyone loathed her: the taunts rang true. Weasley helped save the world, but he was also a cheating bastard. What can anyone say? Draco said nothing.

Along with all other participants in the conversation, he was abruptly thrown backward off his feet and further away from Ron Weasley. Draco fell gracelessly while Blaise practically floated to the ground. Someone had cast a powerful _Protego Maxima_! There must have been seven other witnesses, but Draco watched as the colour drained from Weasley’s face and followed his gaze to see …

_Hermione?_

Did she ever not have books in her arms? Almost nothing had changed. Her hair was still so bushy she didn’t need earmuffs. Draco wondered, briefly, if the same could be said of him. Could anyone else see that he had changed? Except, Hermione looked older. There were dark circles under her eyes and her expression was tired. Life had clearly chewed her up and spat her back out. Everything else about her, from the plain black coat to the way she hid behind the books in her arms, said she was desperate not to be seen. Draco empathized, but he saw her all the same. Those brown eyes he had been searching for at the party were finally in his line of sight. Draco’s breath hitched and, good Lord, he was not prepared for this to happen.

His mouth went dry as she approached. By the looks of it, Weasley had a similar reaction. Silky smooth as ever, Blaise leapt up and offered to hold her books. Hermione accepted as the others got to their feet.

“Ronald. Lavender,” she greeted them in turn. Weasley began to speak but she cut him off.

“I forgive you.”

_Merlin, so that’s what it sounds like._

“Both of you,” Hermione continued. “I have been dreading this moment for two years and all I have is forgiveness. The blame is too heavy for me to carry any longer, so I forgive you for cheating on me. For lying to me and for trying to hex my friends.”

_Friends?_

“These people are your friends now?” Weasley asked, flabbergasted.

“Between the cover stories in _Witch Weekly,_ the _Daily Prophet_ , and every publication except the _Quibbler_ about why you cheated on then dumped me? Shockingly, Ronald, there isn’t a queue at my door. You never even bothered to apologize in public. Or tell them why. You never paid any mind to how this hurt me, but I forgive you anyway.”

_Wow._

Hermione shared a knowing look with Katie.

“Besides, it’s nice to see my enemies become my friends.”

“Thank you,” Lavender said, clutching Weasley’s arm.

Draco had the strong urge to vomit.

“Yeah, ‘Mione. Thank you. And I am sorry. Really, I am. I fumbled this so bad.”

No one could miss how Hermione’s cheeks pinked when he used her nickname. Still carrying a torch for Weasley, it seemed. That felt like a punch to the gut, but Draco did not know why; he had no right to be territorial over her. He certainly did not hold out hope she had feelings for him not synonymous with “loathing.”

“You did. Maybe one day you’ll be my friend again.” Hermione dismissed him then and turned to Blaise. “Are you heading to CROW?”

As Weasley took his leave, an expression of hurt on his face, and as Pansy said good-bye to Katie, Hermione finally looked at Draco. Until then it was like he was merely an audience to the drama, but she wore a kind of sad smile. Draco's chest seemed to tighten and his heart beat wildly, threatening to splinter his ribcage.

**.oOo.**

They met Astoria in one of CROW’s conference rooms. Before Hermione even took off her coat, Astoria threw her arms around Hermione’s neck. She was taken aback but returned the hug and said, “I take it you heard the good news?”

“I knew it was you as soon as I saw it in the paper,” Astoria beamed.

As they all laid their coats overtop the chairs, Pansy asked, “What’s the good news?”

“The Ministry has agreed to subsidize CROW’s orphan child programs,” Hermione revealed.

“That is half of all our operational costs. What strings did they attach?” Blaise asked.

“No strings!” Astoria said, gleefully. “They published Hermione’s recommendation in the _Prophet_! Everyone loves this place and the Ministry never passes up an opportunity to make themselves look good, you know.”

Draco picked up the copy lying on the table. Blaise read along over Draco’s shoulder. Pansy playfully hit Hermione on the arm and said, 

“That is amazing, Granger! Thank you!”

Hermione flushed and Draco muttered the best bits aloud. She laid the praise on thick.

“Quintessential example of the goodness of wizardkind …’Evil dies with its perpetrators?’ My family name is enough to prove that untrue,” he quipped before continuing, “but our kindness lives on long after our time is through. ... The wrongs of wizards past will not harm our future ... Stalwart commitment to integrity and fair practices, eschewing prejudice for tenderness … If the only way to save someone during a war is deceit, the only way to save them after the war is with compassion.

"Wait.” Draco reread the line and muttered aloud, "The only way to save someone during a war is deceit." Draco narrowed his eyes at the writing on the page before saying, “Hermione did not write this.”

“Of course I did,” she snapped.

Draco shook his head, attempting to reconcile the contradicting facts in front of him.

“No. No, she didn’t write this because I said this. ‘The only way to save someone during a war is deceit.’ That’s what I asked her, I asked her if the only way to save someone during a war is deceit using those exact words. Hermione couldn’t have written this because she wrote this.”

No one had to ask who the final “she” referred to, not even Hermione. Draco looked at her, truly addressed her for the first time in five years and had his answer. The realization dawned on Hermione’s face but it could not be true. Draco would not allow it to be true. Except, Hermione’s expression abruptly changed from acknowledgement to fear and goddamn if Draco hadn’t seen that exact look on another face.

_The doe that wandered into the wolf den._

He would not allow it to be true. He did not break eye contact with her as he dropped the paper on the table and crossed the room in three strides. Draco looked down at her, willing it, willing her to tell him he was wrong. He took her hand and Blaise cautioned, “Draco,” but the damage was done.

He pulled up Hermione’s right sweater sleeve to see his Dark Mark mirrored on her skin. It was as it had been for six years. It stung more to see those thick, faint red lines on Hermione's skin than it did his own. Wearing the Mark was a curse Draco intended to bear for the rest of his life, but seeing it on her, next to what he knew was on her other arm, was more of a slap in the face than when Hermione had actually punched him. He squeezed her hand too tightly, losing control bit by bit, and Hermione stood stone-still. Draco clenched his jaw reflexively before quietly asking, “It was you?”

The lights flickered.

For the smallest moment, everything was still. Draco was on the precipice between numbness and anger, unsure if he had the right to be either. He dropped Hermione’s hand and turned to face Blaise, who met his gaze and knew exactly which way the moment would tip. Red sparks flew from Draco’s fingertips and Blaise said, “Think before you say anything.”

Draco only had one question. He was shaking, his body vibrating in anticipation because he knew the answer. He fixed Blaise with a desperate stare.

“You knew?”

“I—“

Draco punched him in the jaw. The women gasped but the pain in Draco’s knuckles faded to nothing as his anger rose. Blaise worked his jaw back into place and rubbed his cheek. Draco's eyes narrowed and his voice cracked as he shouted at Blaise.

“You knew!”

It was an accusation. Blaise rotated his jaw and shook off the blow before confirming, “I knew.”

Draco rounded on Pansy, “Then all of you knew!”

“Peter Henry traced the shoe to a dress shop in Paris,” she admitted. Draco stepped backward, repulsed.

“You kept this from me? You all knew what I needed from her, and you—“

“Would you have believed us if we told you?” Astoria asked skeptically.

“Yes, because you are my friends,” he said firmly before pointing at Hermione. “Her fear of me is what I have to live with. It is of my own making. I could have made better choices. I could have been a better boy and a much better man.

“But you? After what we went through and all we built together, you kept this from me? Loyalty is knowing we can tell each other what matters even when it is painful or infuriating. Merlin knows Hermione is both, but I trusted you. How can I look at you and see my faith reflected? I know the good I do has to be kept in the shadows. I know darkness is all everyone else sees when they look at me or when they hear my name. How am I supposed move forward if you see that in me, too?”

He sighed and paced the room a bit before saying, “Meet me in the Manor with my parents. I need a word alone with Miss Granger.” Her name was acid on his tongue, and the burn did not fade after the others Disapparated.

“In time, I will forgive my friends,” Draco began, “but you—you are the biggest liar of them all!” He was so angry, he knew he would regret the words but they felt so good to say. “The things you thought of me?”

“I was wrong,” Hermione conceded.

“I admitted things to you. I trusted you!”

“And I learned I can trust you.”

“But I told you things,” Draco petulantly insisted.

“Things I needed to hear,” Hermione replied. “Things I needed to see. I was terrorized by memories of that place for years, until you gave me some light to cling to. That’s why I did … What I did. There, I mean,” Hermione raised her right arm in explanation. “I wish I would’ve thought about you sooner, that I would’ve opened my mind to you.”

Hermione took a couple steps forward then, closing the distance between them. The walls had ears, so Draco kept his voice barely above a whisper.

“I always thought when I apologized to you, I’d be better. That I could look at the world and not be afraid of how they perceive me. I wanted all of this,” he gestured at the room, “To have your validation because then I would know it is great.”

“Draco, this is amazing.”

He moved slightly toward her then so there was almost no space between them. Draco looked down and caught Hermione glancing at his lips as he cautiously whispered, “At the ball, you said—“

“I meant everything I said,” Hermione insisted as her lips ghosted over his.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I do now.”

Part of Draco knew it was what he wanted, to meet her there. Fate seemed to force them together, but any softness in him vanished as he remembered he was supposed to be angry. Why He couldn't tell. Draco tried to put words to the emotions he wanted to feel and they rang hollow, but he spoke them all the same.

“I wanted my work here to reflect kindness and decency so when I told people I built it they would have no recourse other than to see it in me." Draco stepped backward, severing their closeness. His voice rose in volume as he accused, “You took that away from me! I showed you the aftermath of my trauma. The scorched earth of my own hellish battlefield that I can never leave because the war was waged from my home. I did not want your vision of me clouded by that reality. I do not want your forgiveness out of pity!”

“It wasn’t about you,” Hermione countered. “I was cheated on, dumped, and doomed to spinsterhood until this damn law made everything impossible. The questions people ask about me, the whispers in the lift, all of it. I said I lo--I said what I said, because I would never say such a terribly thoughtless thing. And to you, of all people! But I wasn't me, I wasn't anybody then. I just, for a few hours, wanted to stop being me!”

Draco understood that pain. He would welcome the opportunity to shrug off the Malfoy name for a few hours. But he would never lie, not when it mattered. With Hermione, it all mattered.

“You don’t get to stop being Hermione around me! I knew that person I danced with to be honest, understanding, and ingratiating. How can I see any of that in you now?”

Draco grabbed his coat and Disapparated.

**.oOo.**

He arrived in the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor. Everyone would be in his mother’s study, and his frustration only grew during his short walk there. He was frustrated because there was not much reason for him to be as angry as he was. His friends lied and he would forgive them. Hermione lied, but she was so frightened …

The doors to his mother’s study swung open. He walked to the front of the desk where his mother sat, his father standing behind her. After Azkaban, some parts of Lucius Malfoy changed drastically, but not this. He had always used Narcissa as a go-between, an emotional shield, never the one to deal with Draco when things went downhill. Lucius could create drama but never wanted to handle the fallout.

Draco’s friends stood behind him, lining the back wall like a battalion. His mother was, truly, a force to be reckoned with. She looked like a force of nature, her hair slicked back and her spine ramrod-straight. As unpredictable and devastating as a tornado, but Draco let his own shoulders slump as he asked, 

“You knew?”

His mother nodded and Draco’s heart sank. He held out hope at least his mother believed he had changed. Just how many people believed he was incapable of hearing the truth? How many thought he would reject Hermione because she was a Muggle-born? How many believed he would be truly angry? Misunderstanding—perhaps that would be Draco’s only legacy.

“How could you keep this from me?” Draco asked. He wanted desperately to put a name to whatever he felt. He wanted to feel betrayed, but he wasn’t. He glanced at his father and asked, “Did you know?”

He was met with a shake of the head and, “No, son.”

Draco faced his mother again, but she was not angry. She was not anything that made sense. It was not anger or disappointment or even a hint of hostility. No, his mother was just sad. 

“You are not angry with me, Draco. You are not angry at your friends, either. Upset, perhaps, but I believe none of us did this for your benefit.” She eyed Blaise, Astoria, and Pansy over Draco’s shoulder. “Because you know we were right to keep the truth from you. It allowed both of you the time you needed. Not nearly enough in my view, but I will not argue with Fate. Tell us, Draco, with whom are you truly angry?”

“Hermione,” Draco replied, but that didn’t taste right. 

“She lied to me. I told her things, admitted what I wanted to apologize for and she just …”

“Let you. She let you show her what she needed to see. You know that and you are not angry with her. You are frustrated ecause I think you wanted it to happen a certain way. Draco, it went better. Hermione changed the way she looks at you, has she not? She sees what your father and I always saw in you, but somewhere along the way we taught you loving the wrong type of person might be a weakness.”

Draco glanced at his father. His mother had delicately skirted around saying “non-pureblood,” opting for “the wrong type” instead. His father still seemed hesitant. After all that time, after a stint in Azkaban, after being cast out by the only wizard Lucius was ever loyal to, he could not bring himself to "taint" their line. Draco could see it on his father’s face, and that upset him more than anything. His mother continued, “It is not.”

"Tell me, then, why the change of heart, mum? You used to take such pride in being pure. This willingness to even consider letting a Muggle-born into our family is contrary to everything you believed, everything you taught me. Why is it Hermione? How is this okay?"

Narcissa tilted her head slightly and narrowed her eyes. Draco recognized that look. It was the same look she would get when he said something wrong. That question made her angry.

"Look at what it did to your father, to Voldemort, to my sister! Admitting I was wrong feels awful, but I can see the way the world turns, Draco. Our history is not the future, and now it is the law that you do this. We will not break the law any more because I will not have you or your father taken from me again! I may be terribly prejudiced. Your father and I may be irredeemable, even, but Hermione is not some Mudblood bitch you found on holiday. She saved the wizarding world. We owe her a great debt, and if she wants your hand in marriage she can damn well have it."

“I hate the way she looked at me,” Draco admitted. “I hated myself for being someone a random Muggle-born would know to fear. Knowing it was Hermione …” He ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the ground for a moment as her fearful face flitted across his memory. “Mum, when she saw me, she was genuinely frightened. Like of the thousand people, running into me was the worst-case scenario and she was scared. She associates me, us, our home with pain.”

“And you associate her with guilt, son,” Lucius chimed in. “How do you believe she takes to that, now?”

“Shut up, father! Will you please?”

The room gasped. The walls themselves seemed to take a step back. Draco continued in a barrage.

“This is your fault! I am going to spend the rest of my life undoing the legacy of yours. When I founded a charity with pureblood money, I did it in secret because no one will trust help from a Malfoy. That is your true endowment to me.”

That felt good. That felt like control. It was easier to just bury himself in anger, rather than admit the true source of his frustration. Draco was heaving, shoulders rolling noticeably, and he slammed a fist on top of the desk because he just needed to hit something. But his father did not act except to take his mother’s hand. Dementors sucked all the drama from Lucius Malfoy, and his willingness to overlook consequences died with Voldemort. He stood there like everything Draco said was to be expected. Confirmed when he said, “I know, son. I am sorry.”

“No, you don’t get to be sorry!” He was shouting, still. Draco glanced toward the ceiling and willed his voice down to a reasonable decibel.

“You don’t get to be sorry. There is no replacing what we lost, but you get to repent. You get to spend the rest of your life making amends for dragging our family, dragging mum, into Lord Voldemort’s circle. You don’t get to be sorry,” he repeated. “You get to repair us.”

The room was silent. His father stood behind his mother’s chair, looking every inch the regal couple they had always been. For a second, Draco allowed himself to imagine his future. He was so stunned by whom he saw at his own side that he took a step backward. Could Hermione ever be willing to fill that role? Then again, the most powerful unions are forged by opposing sides of a war. Draco turned to face his friends.

“Hermione Granger has always been smarter than me. When I told her, well, I did not know it was her, but I told her the only way to save someone during a war is deceit, and she amended it in her recommendation to the Minister. She said the only way to save someone after a war is compassion. I am going to trust her this time. Maybe I did know it was her. I told her about everything, I showed her everything, I admitted that I do not want my legacy to be one of hate. I have seen what it does to people; I saw what it did to my family, and so I forgive you. All of you.”

Draco turned to face his father.

“Even you, Father. Even you, because maybe without all this pain I would still be the terrible boy I once was. I would still be that caricature of what you were. Vile, dramatic, prejudiced and all. But I am not, so I forgive you.

“I know you all kept this from me, not because I am a terrible person, but because I hadn’t done enough. I was not good enough, I am not good enough, not like I wanted to be when I finally saw Hermione again. I understand.”

“You still have to get married, Draco,” Blaise said. “We kept this from you because that girl, the one you met, was the one you wanted. We did not want that hope taken away from you. You know it was right, because your first reaction was anger. Not supplication or contrition, but anger at her, at us, at your father—“

“Being angry at my father is nothing new,” Draco interrupted.

“Of course not, but you blamed everyone but yourself. And do you know why you did it?” Blaise asked. Draco huffed, unwilling to respond, so Blaise answered, 

“Because you still didn’t think she would forgive you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was an election this week, and I began this chapter the day after. I was angry. Very angry. As I wrote, Draco got angrier and angrier at his friends, at the world, at his father ... Until I realized he had no right to be angry. He was a bastard to Hermione and she needed time to come around. I realized Draco would be angry, but it would feel off because he knew he didn't have the right to be. That's where this chapter came from. It may be a little over-the-top, but there was a lot of my own frustration that I poured into Draco. 
> 
> Also, that little bit with Pansy and Ron? The most fun to write. I based the characters on other characters I love; Pansy is Frank Underwood and she is so fun. It's great to write someone who does everything with questionable intent and revels in the world calling them shady.
> 
> I hope this chapter was enough of an emotional payoff. It felt good. The next chapter may or may not have actual kissage. Comments and criticism are always welcome!!


	7. Chapter VI: "A Few Good Men" (Hermione)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for some dialogue-heavy prose?? If so, this is the chapter for you!! The two most common questions I received were 1) Why was the Marriage Law enacted? 2) When are Ron and Hermione going to get some closure? Asked and answered in this chapter. 
> 
> Sorry it took awhile for me to update, it will not take this long to get the next one up. This has somehow gone from a three-chapter Cinderella!AU to an extended political commentary about corruption, secrecy, and the power of choice. I have seen Fantastic Beasts since the last update and added a little mention.

“When I asked you to breakfast, the invitation did not include a plus-one,” Hermione said through gritted teeth. Beside her, Harry showed no reaction except to eat another forkful of waffles. Her fingers were so tight around her own cutlery it nearly bent as she stared angrily at Ron Weasley across the table. He was in her dining room, sitting at her table.

Sundays may be the best day for brunch, but Hermione hadn’t made Ron a plate. He simply sat there, staring at the table.

After a few minutes he began to say something. “Harry said—“

“Harry lied,” Hermione cut him off, assuming it was a reference to his unwelcome presence in her home.

“Yeah, I lied. I invited Ron,” Harry admitted. “But it’s been two years since you two broke off the engagement.”

“Since he broke off the engagement,” Hermione amended.

Ron shrank a little further into his chair.

“Okay, since Ron broke off the engagement, and I have been the mediator for awhile now. If I wanted to referee I'd get paid to do it on the Quidditch pitch. I love the two of you. We went through more than our fair share of difficulty. We kind of saved the world, but if I’m being honest, the both of you are annoying the hell out of me. Hermione, you are my best friend. Ron, you’re also my best friend and I am married to your sister. So the two of you left me caught in the middle. I've decided you are going to get your shit together. Now. And we're not leaving until you do.”

Hermione turned toward Harry in disbelief and asked, “Are you joking?”

“I am completely serious.”

“I know I was an arse, Hermione, but it has been two years. You did forgive me, so isn’t Harry right? Can’t we, you know, be friends again?” Ron asked. 

Hermione looked at both of them, completely bumfuzzled.

“I’m sorry, let’s take a look at the Christmas magazines from 2000, shall we?” Hermione said. As she waved her wand twelve magazines and newspapers appeared on the empty chair next to Ron. The _Daily Prophet_ from December 27 th, 2000, flipped its way onto the table. On the cover was a photo of a sleep-deprived, puffy-eyed Hermione checking into a room at The Leaky Cauldron. 

“Trouble in Paradise,” she said before continuing to the byline. “Hermione Granger was spotted tearily checking into The Leaky Cauldron this Christmas. Miss Granger gave her fiancé a second chance after he reportedly had an affair with Lavender Brown, but now it appears the “golden” duo is done for good.”

 _Witch Weekly_ fluttered on top of the newspaper. Its cover had a similar photo and the headline read, “Ronmine: Their Shocking Split!”

“I have ten more like this, Ronald. All of them featuring similar content, the same three photos, all trying to say the exact same thing. Hermione Granger: dumped. Look at them yourself. I’m sure you saw them back then. They were impossible to miss,” Hermione said acidly. She waved her wand again and each of the magazines piled themselves atop of the next one on the table.

“ _Wizard and Home_ , even got in on the action. _Wizards Quarterly_ with a stunningly favourable outlook on your affair. Most employers do not feel entitled to print stories about employees’ love lives, but that did not stop _Ministry Magazine_ , did it? Our breakup was carried internationally. _Fidelius Actuelle_ , _Version Fémina Magique_ , _Mermaid Musings_ and _Harpie’s Bazaar_ all covered it. _Divination Daily_ predicted we would be back together in three months. Wrong, as usual, but who cared?”

Ron’s mouth had slowly fallen open, as though seeing it all at once made him understand Hermione’s perspective. He picked up the _Phoenix_ gossip magazine and stared at the cover, trying to avoid Hermione’s gaze.

“Do you know what they all have in common, Ronald?”

“What’s that?”

“No response from you.”

Harry inhaled sharply before saying, “She’s got you there.”

“Well, what was I supposed to say to all this?” Ron asked. He shrugged and looked at Harry. “What could I have done?”

“Anything!” Hermione shouted. “Anything is what you could have done, and nothing is what you did!”

“I can’t respond to this garbage,” Ron said, tossing the copy of _Phoenix_ onto the table with the others.

“You can.”

“How?”

“How about, 'Having been through so much together, Hermione and I know we deal with tragedy differently. I made a mistake and I do not believe I am the best person for Hermione to lean on or from whom to seek comfort. Recognizing that truth, I ended our relationship for both our benefits. I regret the timing as the holiday season should be a happy one. Let this be a lesson to treat your loved ones with the care and attention they deserve.' That's it! All you had to do was take the blame for something you did, and you couldn't even manage that.”

Ron was stunned.

“How did you do that?”

“I’ve worked in the Minister’s office for four years, Ronald. The first skill they teach you in politics is how to talk out of your arse. The question is, why didn’t you do that?”

“Because it was my fault! The boy who lived and the brightest witch of a generation got all the praises while I was the sidekick for seven years. By some miracle, Hermione, you agreed to marry me and then I went and fucked it up. How am I supposed to spin that?”

“So to save yourself embarrassment, I’ve gone through two years of it.”

Ron changed the subject. “Why did you keep all these?” 

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t know, really.”

They sat in silence for awhile. Harry was content to just eat and wait for Ron and Hermione to continue talking to each other. Hermione gathered the magazines and sat them next to the fireplace.

“What’s that for?” Ron asked.

“Kindling,” Hermione answered.

After a few more minutes of awkward silence, Ron asked, “Why did you forgive me yesterday?”

Hermione did not answer at first, but eventually she said, “I’ve been thinking about something Draco said yesterday.”

“Draco? Draco Malfoy?”

“Hermione’s spent quite a lot of time with him over the past couple weeks, haven’t you?” Harry teased.

Hermione rolled her eyes and smiled. “Oh, stop it. It’s nothing like that.”

“I think it’s exactly like that,” Harry countered.

“Wait, when you said they were your friends I thought you were joking!” Ron exclaimed. “Are you dating Malfoy?!”

Hermione scoffed, “If I was dating Draco, don’t you think that would’ve been on the cover of _Witch Weekly_? Draco has made quite clear what he thinks of me and it’s not pleasant. But he said something yesterday to his friends. He said, ‘I know darkness is all everyone else sees when they look at me or when they hear my name. How can I move on if you see that in me too?’

“I suppose I forgave you for the same reason. How were you expected to move forward if all I saw in you was the man who cheated on me? You did love me, I know you did. I know my nightmares were scary for you, and then I started working late so I wouldn’t have to sleep as much. You weren’t my first priority anymore and eventually I was no longer yours. If my resentment was going to keep you from being a better person, more importantly, if it kept you from being happy, that is too high a price to pay. So I forgave you.”

“Thank God for that!” Harry exclaimed.

“I’m still confused why you started hanging around Draco Malfoy.”

“Because he isn’t who I thought he was,” Hermione answered with a shrug.

“A melodramatic git?” Ron offered.

“No, he most definitely is that,” Hermione replied. Harry murmured his agreement and Hermione continued, “But he’s spent every minute after the war trying to help people.”

“How?”

“I can’t tell you,” Hermione shook her head. “But he made me realize something. During the war, we believed we were fighting for those who could not fight for themselves. Except, we weren’t fighting for everyone. We forgot about Draco. We forgot about Blaise, about everyone who was raised in the darkness who either had to embrace it or die. Draco had no choice. If you only knew what he went through.”

“In case you forgot, Hermione, running around the woods of Great Britain for months was not actually a picnic for us.”

“Oh, I know, Ronald. Isn’t that why you left us there?” Hermione challenged.

Ron looked like he’d been slapped.

Harry said, “I don’t think he deserved that.”

“He did,” Hermione countered. “How would you have liked Voldemort to live your house, Ron? What kind of picnic is that?”

“Wait a minute,” Ron demanded. He narrowed his eyes and leaned across the table. “Why would Malfoy tell you what it was like living with ..." Ron trailed off, uncomfortable with whatever thought he was forming. "Why have you been spending time with him? Are you moving on from me by falling for Draco Malfoy?”

“I am doing nothing of the sort,” Hermione replied. “I moved on by deciding I no longer care what the world thinks of me.”

“Do you care about what Malfoy thinks?”

“Would it be okay if I did?” Hermione asked.

Ron leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and looked toward the ceiling. A minute passed before he locked eyes with Hermione. “How did you feel, seeing me and Lav together?”

Hermione’s nose wrinkled at the use of Lavender’s nickname, and Ron had his answer. But Hermione said, “I felt sad, really. Sometimes I wished the three of us could be family like we used to be. You were my best friends. I could trust you both more than anyone. I put my life in your hands. Seeing you with her reminds me that I wasn’t enough for you, and that hurts.”

“You were enough, Hermione, Merlin, you were. I promise. I just couldn’t be the person you needed me to be. Like you said, we deal with things differently and I couldn’t figure out how to help you through the bad moments. And we had so many of them! Lavender is fun, that’s what I need. Especially after all we went through--the three of us, I mean. Loving that kind of person is easy. Don’t think there was ever a point when I didn’t love you because I did, every second, and that’s why being unable to help you or understand what you needed was so scary.”

“Looking at the two of you is like seeing everything I ever thought we would be.” Hermione shrugged. “You’re happy. Like Harry and Ginny, you’re happy. You both got your happiness, so I have to ask, where’s mine? Am I not good enough? Not smart enough? Am I too smart? Why does the world seem so hell-bent to condemn me? I don’t get it, and that’s what it’s like seeing you and Lavender.”

“If Draco Malfoy makes you happy, then isn't keeping you from that happiness too high a price to pay?” Ron asked, borrowing her phrase. “I don’t think he can make anyone happy, much less someone as bloody impressive as you, but if our time together taught me anything it’s that I don’t understand everything about you. And I am your friend, whether you like it or not. So yes, it is okay with me.” 

Hermione hadn't realized how much she wanted Ron’s approval until she had it. She smiled at him and admitted, “I don’t think Draco will forgive me for lying to him.”

“You still have to get married to a pureblood and Draco doesn’t have anyone lined up, last I heard. Can’t imagine his parents are too thrilled about losing their status as one of the 28.”

“Narcissa Malfoy was fawning over Hermione,” Harry said. “Thought Hermione was the greatest thing since firewhisky.”

“She was not,” Hermione countered. “This law is preposterous, anyway. I don’t even know what its purpose is. What am I supposed to do now that even Draco is not an option for me?” Hermione’s head fell to her hands. “What am I going to do?”

“You work for the Minister,” Ron said. “Talk to him about it.”

“He’s denied all my requests. I have no leverage.”

“Of course you do,” Ron insisted. “You’re you.”

**.oOo.**

Hermione met with the Minister first thing Monday morning.

“Sir,” Hermione nervously cleared her throat. “You know I hold you in the highest esteem.”

‘Yes,” Minister Shacklebolt nodded once before folding his hands together atop the desk. He looked at her expectantly and, to Hermione, it felt terribly like she was thirteen and being chastened by Headmaster Dumbledore.

Hermione straightened up then continued. “You are aware my respect for you is unmatched.”

“Yes,” he replied again.

“Then tell me, Minister, did you give one thought to what the Marriage Law would truly mean for single witches and wizards?”

“I—“ the Minister began, but Hermione cut him off.

“Did you give a single thought to what this would mean for me? Where do you get off giving me a time frame for the most difficult decision of my life? Why does the Ministry of Magic think it can make decisions about my life?!”

“Hermione, sit down,” Minister Shacklebolt commanded.

She had not realized she was standing. Hermione delicately retook her chair and noted if she wanted to keep her job, best not to shout at her boss.

“Every day since the law was passed, you have requested I unilaterally repeal it even though the final signature was mine. This forces me to conclude, Miss Granger, you do not understand the law’s intent.”

“This law is a breeding tool. You are treating young wizards like livestock.”

“It is not an we most certainly are not,” the Minister countered.

“Not only have you given all of us a deadline by which we must marry, you also told us we must enter that union with a certain type of person. You are the same as blood purists, you are just doing it the other way around. Please enlighten me as to why I should not rebel against this idea as I did that one.”

“That ideology was borne of divisiveness and fear.”

Hermione challenged him. “That is the same excuse Grindelwald gave for everything he did.” 

Kingsley Shacklebolt narrowed his eyes and realized Hermione was not simply being a nuisance. “You survived one war, Miss Granger. I survived two. After the first, pureblood ideology was rampant. It hid in the shadows but the separation still existed. That divide is why Voldemort came back to an army instead of a small band of miscreants.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, Minister Shacklebolt, Voldemort was defeated by a small band of miscreants. And I’m not referring to the Order of the Phoenix.”

“Your status as one of the Golden Trio is valuable, but—“

“There is no ‘but’ to be said. Without us, Voldemort wins. Do you forget that we, as a bunch of 5th-years, broke out of Hogwarts and into the Department of Mysteries? Do you forget that while Ministry raids turned up nothing that we found not one, but three of Voldemort’s Horcruxes?” Hermione locked her gaze on Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“Do you believe in true love, Miss Granger?”

“I do.”

“Then we are at an impasse, because love is a choice. Limiting your options does not deprive you of them all." Minister Shacklebolt's tone conveyed his earnest sincerity. We are defined by the wars we went through. All of us will carry the memory of the carnage, of the hatred, for the rest of our lives. The Marriage Law is our assurance it will not affect the future generations.

“In fact, that is why I was so quick to approve that charity subsidy you suggested. In your proposal you said, ‘the wrongs of wizards past will not harm our future.’ The Marriage Law works just the same. Requiring—“

“Forcing.”

“Requiring marriages to be unions of different blood statuses, people have no choice but to accept each other. Their children will grow up in a world where blood status defines nothing. That is how we prevent a Lord Voldemort.”

“No, Minister, that is how you create a Tom Riddle.”

The Minister made a disapproving sound low in his throat. “Hermione, this law passed with good intent and will lead to good things. I refuse to allow progress to stall because of your idealism.”

Hermione stood and held out her hand. Minister Shacklebolt took it cautiously. She said, “Thank you for your time, Minister.”

He asked, “Where are you going?”

Hermione opened his office doors and mentioned she would be talking to her staff.

“Why?”

“I find it’s appropriate to tell them I resign. Much rather do it in person than a memo.”

“You are quitting?” The Minister was taken aback.

“I do not quit, Minister Shacklebolt. It’s just, I suddenly find myself unable to work for you. Not only would that be an insult to my," she emphasized, "'idealism,' but I will not follow this law and cannot lead a resistance from inside the Ministry." She sighed, a little wistful. "If there is one thing I learned from Harry Potter, it is the importance of choice in your own future. You took away my choice and that is unacceptable to me.”

She turned and walked to her desk. She nearly tripped, a little numb from what she had done. Hermione stuffed the contents of her desk into a magically extended purse, then prepared to address her assistants. 

She gathered the six of them and said, “I’m resigning. I do not know when the Minister will hire a replacement. I appreciate all the work you’ve done for me while I’ve been here. If any of you ever need a recommendation or have a question about—“

“Hermione!” Harry Potter suddenly ran off the lift. “Hermione!”

“Harry, I just quit my job.”

“Really?” he asked with a smile.

“Yeah, yeah I did. I’m kind of regretting it already,” Hermione admitted. “Would groveling for my position be beneath me?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “There is a melodramatic, blond git shouting for you downstairs in the atrium.”

“What?” Hermione asked, and her assistants all leaned closer as their eyes went wide. Ministry gossip acted like a magnet.

“And he’s persistent. There’s a policy, you know, not letting anyone into the Minister’s office without an appointment. They definitely won't let a Malfoy up here. Now he’s just shouting at the poor lift operators.”

Hermione groaned. “What does he want?” 

“Hell if I know.”

“Okay. Right, okay,” Hermione said, breathing slowly. “Okay, so, let’s go. Let’s go downstairs because I’m leaving anyway.”

“You look nervous. Why are you nervous?” Harry asked on their way to the lift.

When they stepped inside Hermione replied, “I don’t know why he’s here. When we spoke on Saturday, he made it clear that I am not someone he considers worthy of his time.”

“Are you joking?”

“I’m not.”

“Well, he was lying.” They both stumbled forward as the lift moved.

“How would you know?”

“Because he’s had a crush on you since he was twelve.”

“What does that matter? He wanted my forgiveness for basically everything he’s ever said to me. Also for watching his aunt torture me, he was particularly pained about that. When he had the chance to ask for anything, when he knew the 'mystery girl' was me, he never asked. He was just angry.” 

“You can add two and two together, Hermione.”

“But if he really wanted my forgiveness, he’d—“

“Find you as soon as he realized his mistake,” Harry finished.

Hermione paled. “Oh, God.” She was nervous, and nearly cast a Disillusionment charm as the doors of the lift opened to reveal the atrium. She heard Draco before she saw him.

“For the love of all that is good in the world, I just need to see her for a minute. Can the Minister not spare a minute of her time? Is he too busy writing more ridiculous laws to ruin my life? Tell him he did a damn good job with the first one.”

Hermione stepped out of the lift and wondered, would who she was, who she really was, be enough? There was no magic potion, no magic dress to help her. The greatest risk anyone can take is to be seen as they truly are. In that moment, however, Hermione did not need magic to channel Ella. Instead, she told herself only to have courage and be kind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, no kissage yet. (Next chapter, probably. Just hang on a bit.)
> 
> Was the closure enough?? Harry is very sassy, so I love including him. It felt like it was time for him to bring Ron and Hermione together. Was there too much dialogue? Are you still interested? Do I need to speed things along? Is it too political??
> 
> I feel like this thing is so off the rails from what I originally intended. Sometimes their voices seem so far away, like I just can't quite get them to sound right. Comments and criticism are always appreciated.


	8. Chapter VII: "Making Headlines" (Draco)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #Finally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my only beta is Spellcheck. Please forgive any errors. Thank you all for sticking with this ridiculous fic. I look at the comments and the subscribers and just love creating this story for you. Playing with these characters has been both fun and frustrating. I strongly recommend you read the fic over again before reading this chapter. This is a WIP and I have made significant (not plot-altering) changes to some of the earlier chapters. It just feels better to me now. 
> 
> Dialogue-heavy prose. Lots of words. But the *feels*. Please enjoy.

Everyone Draco loved seemed resigned to the fact that Hermione was the woman he wanted. Even his father, who used to punish Draco for not doing as well as “the Mudblood” in school. Draco slept on it but in the morning it still did not feel real. The idea of Hermione seeing anything redeemable in him was a dream; their evening together was nothing more than a fairytale.

Blaise Zabini looked at home almost anywhere, even on the dais in a Muggle tailor’s shop. After the ball he insisted he wanted more Muggle clothes because, “Did you see my ass in those trousers?” It was small but posh, brightly lit, and Blaise stood in front of 180-degree mirrors like he owned the place. To casual observers, it may well have been a normal stop for him on a Sunday afternoon. Draco, on the other hand, sat off to one side with an expression of displeasure. The unfamiliar environment did nothing to improve his mood.

His friend sighed, exasperated. Blaise motioned to the tailor who stopped taking measurements as his customer focused on Draco.

“I knew it was Hermione and you were right to be upset that I kept it from you. I was trying to protect you because that is what friends do. You needed to be certain that you love her.”

Draco opened his mouth to protest but Blaise cut him off with a wave of his hand. “You don’t need to say it. Not now, not to me. All I need to know is why you have not admitted it to yourself when everyone else can see it. Is the uncertainness because she is Muggle-born? You don’t want to be the Malfoy who taints the line? Are you in love with her because you feel like you owe her a debt?”

No, it was only that Draco was not ready to face everything he’d done to her. He refused to believe he was capable of being the partner Hermione needed. He couldn’t answer his own question, whether he can ever become a good man. When he was so angry at Hermione, Draco was truly angry at himself because he did not know whether he could ever stop pushing her away.

“She will not forgive me, so what does it matter?” Draco asked petulantly.

Blaise closed his eyes and groaned. “Stop acting like such a boy. Stop it, stop it right now,” Blaise demanded. Draco straightened his spine and his eyes went cold in response to the insult. His, _Do not forget who I am_ , did not need to be verbalized. “Do not forget what you once were and whom you have made yourself into. You singlehandedly founded a charity to help rebuild our world.”

“I did that to clear my conscience.”

“Bullshit,” Blaise insisted. “Draco, you cannot hide yourself from me, you never could. You never needed me to remind you exactly who you are until Hermione re-entered your life. Why start questioning yourself now?” Silence. Blaise then asked, “Have you told Granger you are sorry?”

“Not in so many words.”

“How can she forgive you before you even apologize? You are jumping to a conclusion when you have yet to make the first move. Stop the drama, stop being the kid you still believe your father wants you to be.” Blaise was met by silence again. “Tell me why you are in love with her.”

“I am not in love _with_ her,” Draco insisted. “That implies she would reciprocate and she has every reason not to.”

“Goddamn it!” Blaise shouted. The tailor seemed unaffected, like these arguments were commonplace and he was nothing more than the wallpaper. He just kept sticking pins into a cushion. “You love her, I know you do. You have loved her for years and I have watched you torture yourself in fear that you would never gain her approval. I am done watching, I am done playing this game with the both of you. Man to man, friend to friend, tell me right now why it is Hermione.”

Draco did not answer at first. Not that he didn’t have an answer, simply that admitting it aloud seemed to legitimize every reason Hermione had to despise him. Instead, he chose to imagine Blaise’s face as the pin cushion.

“She reminds me of the pride I took in my blood, reminds me it was wrong and that my role in her life is the consequence of decisions made long before me,” Draco finally answered. “I look at her and see that broken people can mend, that we can do good things in spite of the evil we witnessed. In spite of the evil that has been done to her, or that I committed. She looks like hope to me, and I cannot imagine a day when that will not be true.”

Blaise responded, “Draco, she sees the same thing in you. Even Pansy doesn’t hate her anymore. Pansy! All because of the way Hermione complements you as a person. I am tired of you not being able to see it. We both know she’s more than just an option to you. So search your pants to find your manhood and then apologize to her.”

**.oOo.**

The Ministry of Magic never ceased to scare the shit out of Draco Malfoy. Inside the building it felt like there were no boundaries between life and law. That Monday, Draco found himself at the Minister’s lift station unable to get in, and freezing because he’d forgotten his coat.

“I can’t let you up, sir.”

Draco raised an eyebrow at the operator of the Minister’s lift.

“I am Draco Malfoy and I am here to see Hermione Granger.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Miss Granger will want to see me if you only let her know I am here.”

“People are not allowed in the Minister’s office without an appointment,” the operator said. It was clear his intent was, “Former Death Eaters are not allowed anywhere near this office.” All the rage Draco had repressed for years, anger at himself and hatred for the world, spilled over. He walked away, then turned and walked back as Harry Potter walked by.

“Does the Boy Who Lived have an appointment?” Draco asked, loud enough for Harry to hear.

“No, sir,” the lift operator quipped.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “So the Chosen One gets to see Granger any time he wants, but I have to wait it out down here?”

“Undersecretary Granger prefers to exit the Minister’s office through the Floo.”

“So she may bloody well never come down here at all?” Draco asked as Harry Potter got onto the lift.

The operator replied, “That’s correct, sir.”

Draco fumed and began to pace. Five people gathered over by the lifts. Twenty-two more stood in line for the snack cart. Fourteen people had arrived in the Floo behind him. None of which mattered because he desperately needed to speak with Hermione.

"It's policies like this and people like you that make people like me hate this place and everyone in it.” Draco finally said to the lift operator. “How can you expect us to change if you won't allow us to? If you keep looking at us like we should be struck by lightning for our mere existence?" The lift dinged, but Draco could not be bothered to look over. He saw Potter in the edge of his vision but concentrated his exasperation on the unfortunate Ministry employee at the lift desk.

He trained the glare he learned from his father on the employee at the desk. Draco was accustomed to Hermione’s indifference, but he refused to let his schedule be dictated by such a gutless plebian.

“For the love of all that is good in the world, I only need to see her for a minute. Can the Minister not spare a minute of her time? Is he too busy writing more ridiculous laws to ruin my life? Tell him he did a damn good job with the first one.” As the operator’s hand began to shake, Draco noticed someone standing next to Harry Potter in his sightline.

_Hermione?_

“Oh shit,” slipped out before Draco could think.

Hermione narrowed her eyes and Harry sniggered.

“Nice to see you too, Draco. Just popped ‘round for a little chat, have you?” Hermione looked rejuvenated. She looked like she downed a gallon of Felix Felicis and was prepared to take on the world. Her bushy hair was pulled back into a ponytail, exposing the blush rapidly creeping down her neck. Draco felt a momentary satisfaction, knowing he was the reason Hermione was so flushed. As she handed her purse to Potter, Draco noticed she wore the same dark coat she had on days earlier in Diagon Alley, open to reveal a pink sweater and fitted grey trousers. ( _Nicely-fitted grey trousers._ )

“I … um …” Draco tried to regain a cognizant thought.

Hermione turned and stage-whispered to Harry, “I think he’s gone mute.”

“I’m sorry!” Draco shouted. Everyone in a twenty-foot radius turned to look at them. The flow of arrivals nearly halted because so many people began to stare.

Hermione just stood, hands on her hips, expectant. “For what?” she asked impatiently. She clearly did not want to have this conversation under such intense scrutiny, but it was long overdue and Draco did not mind the audience. They believed the worst of him already. He could say nothing to further damage their opinion, so he took a deep breath and answered.

“For calling you a Mudblood in second year. For taking pleasure in knowing I was safe from being petrified while you were stone-cold in the hospital wing. For accidentally making your teeth grow. For taking away points from Gryffindor simply because you are Muggle-born. I am sorry for the pain I caused you and your friends for six years. I just … I am sorry.”

Hermione nodded and said, “Thank you.”

“But I am most sorry for watching Aunt Bellatrix torture you. Being a bystander is unforgivable, and that was unfair to you. I had never known how to be anything other than what people wanted or expected me to be—my father, Voldemort, even you. I was a villain in your story, I know. I am sorry I did not fight for you. I gave fuck-all for Harry and Ron,” he glanced at Harry who shrugged, implying the feeling was mutual, “but my aunt tortured you because you are Muggle-born. No other reason, and that is something to fight against. I know that now and I regret not knowing it then.

“So I ask for your forgiveness, which you have every right to deny me,” Draco finished. He swallowed, completely prepared for rejection.

Hermione only looked at him, confused. “I knew that already,” she said. “You just needed to ask, and of course I forgive you.”

There was an audible gasp which must have come from at least three dozen people, and Hermione glanced around. There was a small circle of space around Draco, Hermione, and Harry, but there were dozens of people crowded around them. Each person eager for a showdown Hermione would not give to them. “I was prejudiced, too. I did not think about what pain you had to endure during the war. I never even thought to ask. So of course, of course I forgive you.”

 _Merlin_ . Draco’s mouth fell open. He expected to be chastised, to be humiliated. He did not expect actual forgiveness short of groveling. Hermione interrupted his thoughts.

“I resigned a half hour ago.”

“As Undersecretary?” Draco asked, astonished. “Why would you do that?”

“This Marriage Law is just another way to manipulate us. I don’t know about you, but I have had enough of that for a couple lifetimes.”

“Agreed,” Draco smiled weakly. “So I take it you are going to fight until it’s repealed?” Hermione nodded. Draco’s moment of hope evaporated. If she was successful a future with her would be impossible the moment she had another option for her future.

“Why are you not ecstatic? Having no one tell you when and to whom you must get married has always been our goal. Neither of us wanted this,” Hermione said. “This benefits you, too.”

“It does not,” Draco countered before his brain caught up with his mouth.

“How do you mean?”

“What do you mean, ‘what do I mean?’ Is it not blindingly obvious?” Only way to go at that point was full-speed ahead. “The only person I want is you.” The crowd gasped at his admission, and more people gathered, but he continued. “Without the law, there is no reason for you to want me.”

“You are an idiot,” Harry said unceremoniously over Hermione’s shoulder. “She hasn’t shut up about you in weeks.”

Hermione elbowed Harry in the side. “What Harry meant to say is that you and I have been through a lot recently and I reconsidered my opinion of you.”

Draco scoffed. “Outside of my parents, Blaise, Pansy, and Astoria …” He trailed off and sighed. “I have no one, Hermione. My life is subject to much darker scrutiny than yours and I could never ask you to endure that,” he shook his head. “Being with me will only make life harder for you because of the way they,” he opened his arms and gestured to the crowd around them, “will see you. You touch me and you are tainted.”

“Am I not already?” Hermione asked and pushed up her right shirtsleeve. There were gasps of “Merlin!” as she revealed the faded, mirrored Dark Mark. Whispers travelled out and soon everyone knew what was on display.

Hermione angrily shouted at the crowd, “Don’t you all have some place to be?” But they did not disperse.

“You should not have done that,” Draco insisted.

“I don’t regret it,” she said firmly. “Tell me, and be honest, is there a reason you want to love me other than that you have no one else?”

“Of course,” he answered without hesitation. “Looking at you is like looking into a mirror, it forces me to remember all the things I have done. The things I did, and the times I did not do as I should have done. No one aspires to malevolence, Hermione, not even me.

“Loving you would be unbearably easy. You have me already; you have had me for a longer time than I would care to admit. I witnessed firsthand what really makes you special: your obstinance when put up against things you do not believe in, like this damn marriage edict. It is your persistence, your unwillingness to give up on anything.

“But you and me, Hermione, we understand each other. You have worked so hard because you tasted death. I am willing to bet all the money in my Gringott’s vault against all the money in yours that you choose to live this hyper-focused lifestyle because you came face-to-face with your own mortality and do not know how much time you have left and it is frightening to look back on everything that’s happened to you.”

Hermione was stunned. Her mouth fell open a little bit and Draco kind of fell apart inside. He was right, he knew it, and he desperately wished otherwise. If Hermione had been through enough to make mortality her worldview, well, Draco knew that pain threshold.

“Which is Ron dumped me,” she admitted. “He couldn’t handle it. The working late, the nightmares, and he couldn’t understand my inability to cope the way he was. It just felt like,” she paused for a moment, “If my best friend can’t handle it, how can I expect that anyone else can?” Hermione looked away, up at the ceiling, anywhere that wasn’t Draco’s gaze. Then she walked toward the exit, desperate to be rid of the crowd and the conversation. The circle parted to let her through and Draco followed. He grabbed her arm and forced her to turn around.

“Will you slow down for one goddamn second? I wish it was not this way and that you could be with anyone. I wish that you did not need someone as damaged and fucked-up as my situation is right now. You deserve so much better than that, so much better than me.

“You can go out into the world and do the things you feel are right, regardless of how everyone looks at you. In spite of the things they say, they will cower at your potential and be in awe of your mercy. I aspire to that. You are everything I want to be.”

“And what about me?” Hermione asked. “What about who I want to be?”

“I will do whatever you need, be whomever you need, to help you accomplish everything you can. Travel the world, write a book on House-elves, run for Minister, anything and everything you want. To achieve your potential? Hermione, please give me the privilege of helping you to do that.”

“I’m hearing you, but this isn’t what you said when you found out I was your ‘mystery girl,’” she said sardonically with air quotes.

The crowd began whispering amongst themselves. _Hermione was the girl at the ball?_

“You were angry. You called me a liar,” she reminded him.

“You did lie to me. You said you loved me.”

“It wasn’t a lie!”

Several in the crowd were taken aback. Some of them took an actual step backward, widening the circle.

Hermione admitted, “I was at my worst, my lowest. I was broken and you were there, showing me how I inspired you to become a better person. I felt like I loved you. I meant it at the ball, and I meant it on Saturday, and—“

“And?” Draco asked, hopefully.

“Don’t make me say it,” Hermione insisted. “It’s embarrassing.”

Several of the men in the crowd sucked air in through their teeth. _Oof._ God, was that a slap in the face. Just when he thought she might want him, she threw hope right back in his face.

Draco insisted, “You do not mean that.”

“Of course I do, it’s embarrassing to admit how wrong I was. To think that in a matter of hours you could go from the person I hated more than anyone on the planet to the person who understands me better than anyone … It’s embarrassing. Being confronted by my own prejudice like that? I always thought I was above it.”

“You are not perfect, Hermoine,” Draco replied. “But I will say it, I love you.” Draco threw his hands up.

The people in the crowd looked at each other in amazement. Draco Malfoy loved Hermione Granger.

He said, “Marriage Law aside, I would love you. I could have kissed Ron Weasley on the mouth when I heard he let you go. I clung to that hope for two years.”

“All that time?” Hermione asked, disbelieving. “I don’t believe you.”

“I said you have had me for longer than I care to admit. I was not lying, I would never lie to you.” He took her left sweater sleeve between his fingers and rolled it up to her elbow, exposing the scar there. Draco ran his thumb across it and muttered to himself, “I have to ask how you could ever love me despite this?”

“You’re so dramatic,” Hermione quipped, trying to pivot. She turned away but Draco tightened his hold on her hand.

“Hermione, just give me an answer.” She withdrew her hand and twelve different emotions played across Hermione’s face as she looked at Draco. He couldn’t read which one she settled on, but she stepped closer so they were nearly nose-to-nose.

The circle closed around them, a wall of ears, and Hermione gave away any hope of privacy. She was exasperated when she finally spoke. “To you, I’ve always been ‘Granger.’ I am not anything close to royalty. I am Muggle-born, unemployed, and haunted by the war in ways most people can’t even imagine. I don’t know if your family will accept me. How could they? But if they do, will you take me as I am? The brightest witch of our age, who happens to love you?”

She took a breath and all Draco could imagine was a qualifier. _“Who happens to love you … but can’t marry you.” “Who happens to love you … but it is not worth the scrutiny or the backlash.” “Who happens to love you … but is too good for you.”_ That last was the worst because it was the truth. She was too good, too undeserving of the hardship Draco would bring to any relationship. All Draco knew was he had to stop what she was about to say.

So he kissed her. It was the least elegant kiss of his life. All at once it said, _thank God for that, please don’t add anything else, just be in love with me._

At first everyone was stunned, Hermione included. For a moment she just stood there, processing it all as their audience did the same.

Then she kissed him in return. Draco was clearly surprised and he began to pull away. Hermione tentatively lifted her hand to the back of his head, twined her fingers in his hair and pulled him closer. The audience reaction was immediate. Some of them jostled uncomfortably while others brought their hands to their mouths to cover their gasps. A few random employees whooped in support and Harry Potter could be heard softly muttering, “It’s about damn time.”

Then it was Draco’s turn to be hesitant—he hadn’t considered this scenario. Hermione’s lips were soft and distracting, the way they moved against his. Something in the back of his mind still screamed, “This is too good to be real!” Draco felt it again, this nagging warning that he would never be good enough.

He pulled away. He took Hermione’s arms in his hands, looking from his Dark Mark to her MUDBLOOD scar and back again. Maybe the answer to all his questions was Hermione; the answer was in their shared pain and the need to overcome. They spent so much time looking for a type of compassion only the other could provide. That moment was when he decided to stop pushing Hermione away. Draco wrapped her tightly in a hug and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“Yes, yes, absolutely. Fuck anyone who dares to question it.” He laughed a little. “I will always take you as you are, and ask only that you take me as I am. A former Death Eater still learning how to be a good man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kissage!! Feels!! There will be one more chapter. Hopefully with more kisses and more feels. Comments and criticism are always appreciated. Thanks for sticking with me! Did this feel like an appropriate culmination? We still have the (very long) epilogue to go.


	9. Chapter VIII: "May 2nd, 2003" (Hermione)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [A Very Long Epilogue]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my Christmas present to you all!! Thank you for sticking with this story, and I made this epilogue sweeter than a basket of candy canes. Hopefully your lingering questions are answered. This is a Cinderella fusion, after all, so it's about time we got around to this sugary-sweet moment.

One early morning in April, Hermione found Draco slumped against her bookcase. They weren't living together yet, because that would imply a future neither of them was fully ready to embrace.

He was disheveled and wore the same clothes as the day before. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed like he'd been crying and hadn't slept. She sat on the floor beside him and Draco let his head fall to her shoulder. When Hermione asked what he had been doing, he just replied, “Counting.”

They sat like that for a few minutes before Hermione asked what was wrong.

“I’m not sure who I am anymore,” he whispered. “I try to remember then all I want to do is forget. I know what I saw, what I did, and I need something to prove that's not who I really am anymore.” He shook his head. “I don’t think there’s anything to do that. That person I was will always overshadow everything, and I’m still going to be him at my core. Not someone for anyone to be proud of.”

While it might have been unbelievable four months earlier, Hermione was proud of Draco. She was never one to be doubted and set out to prove she was right to be proud of him.

Six weeks earlier, Hermione stumbled upon the story of a part-Veela baby girl who was adopted through Draco's charity. Her mother was a Death Eater who evaded capture in the aftermath of the final battle. She was captured and sent to Azkaban in late 1999, pregnant and the father nowhere to be found. Custody of the baby was given to CROW just as it began plans for expansion. This baby's story stood out because of who adopted her. At that time, only one part-Veela family had contacted the centre with an open home: Bill and Fleur Weasley.

Hermione found the file and started making plans to prove that Draco's good deeds were making the world a better place. Hermione wanted to prove to Draco that his legacy was not just what he had done for Voldemort, but everything he did to literally rebuild the world. That CROW was more than his penance. 

**.oOo.**

Draco and Hermione Flooed to Shell Cottage.

It was Victoire Weasley’s 3rd birthday.

“Marriage Law Repealed” read the headline of the _Daily Prophet_ on May 2 nd, 2003. The paper was primarily dedicated to remembering the Fallen Fifty. A copy sat, opened to the page with Fred’s remembrance, on the kitchen table in Shell Cottage.

“You were the one ‘oo sent Victoire into our lives?” Fleur asked. She addressed a teary-eyed Draco, who looked at three-year-old Victoire with adoration as she played with her toys in the adjacent room.  

“I’d never actually seen the results of what we do.” Draco admitted. “We hire people to do check-ins and follow-ups because who wants a Malfoy or a Parkinson in their home near their child? Not a chance.”

Fleur tentatively put her hand on his shoulder.

“If Hermione sees good in you, and you send us Victoire, you are welcome here,” she said.

Hermione thought Draco might actually start crying, but that’s why she had brought him. He needed to see the results, because just doing good things wasn't enough. Draco had struggled the last few months, primarily because he didn’t understand his work at the centre was only part of a larger chain reaction.

Victoire Weasley would grow up to be a gift to everyone she met, joyous and beautiful. Victoire would have a knack for bringing people together, just as she did Hermione and Fleur. Hermione regaled Bill and Fleur with the tale of the Christmastide Ball, and then there was a knock at the door.

“That’ll be Ron,” Bill said as he got up to answer.

Hermione turned to Fleur and said, “You didn’t tell me Ron was coming.”

“I asked him to,” Draco said.

Hermione rounded on him. “Why would you do that without telling me?”

“Because I needed to see him. Today,” he added.

Ron Weasley entered the cottage and Draco stood to shake his hand. It was awkward. Hermione stood behind Draco, trying to gauge Ron’s reaction. She knew what Draco’s would be: ice cold, a firm handshake to establish dominance, and a glare when Ron glanced over his shoulder at Hermione. Ron looked at Draco skeptically and returned the handshake in kind. Bill and Fleur each hugged Ron before they all turned to look at Hermione.

She walked to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, underneath his coat, and buried her face in his chest. It was the most familiar feeling in the world, like it was 1998 and Ron was the only refuge she had from the world. She could almost feel Draco’s envy from across the small space but she didn’t care.

“It’s good to see you, ‘Mione.”

“It’s good to see you too,” she replied. That moment felt good, it felt right, and she was home. Then she let him go and stepped away, back toward Draco. with a sense of finality. She had made her choice.

“Upstairs,” Bill said suddenly. “We can talk upstairs.”

“And, what, leave us here?” Hermione asked, incredulous. What could they possibly need to discuss? Why was Ron even there? “What is this, some kind of arbitration?”

Draco turned to face Hermione. He drew in a lengthy breath before squinting his eyes. He exhaled, but his shoulders remained stiff and unmoving. He clenched his jaw, opened his mouth then closed it again, and swallowed something he did not want to say before finally settling on, “No.”

Then Bill, Ron, and Draco headed to one of the upstairs bedrooms.

Fleur watched Victoire play for a couple minutes before Hermione asked, “Do you know what they’re talking about?”

Fleur nodded. 

“I am not supposed to tell ‘oo, but I ‘ave some-sing for ‘oo.” she said. Fleur pulled an Extendable Ear from the back pocket of her jeans. “Zey did not say I could not let you listen,” she winked.

Hermione wrapped Fleur in a quick hug before taking the Extendable Ear and quietly taking the stairs two at a time before arriving at the door to the guest bedroom.

“It’s settled, then,” she heard Bill say. 

_What’s settled?_

“Have you told Harry?” Ron asked.

Draco scoffed.

“Bloody prat asked why I had not done it months ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I have my reasons,” Draco coldly replied. He let out a breath he’d been holding, then he laughed. “Merlin, I cannot believe I am doing this.”

“No one can believe you’re doing this,” Ron added.

Hermione couldn’t see the look on Draco’s face, but she knew his sardonic “excuse you” expression too well.

“Were you this nervous when you did it?” Draco asked. 

_Did what?_

“Of course I was. But, you’ve got to put yourself out there entirely. If you don’t, you’ll end up the same way we did.” 

_What’s going on?_

“We read about what happened at the Ministry,” Bill chimed in. “It was in every magazine from here to China. Seems like he’s put himself out there as far as he can go.”

“No, there’s stuff … Private stuff you have to say,” Ron advised.

“I know. Is it bad I’ve rehearsed it? All twenty different ways it can go.”

“Are you successful in any of them?”

“Honestly?” Draco asked. “No.”

“You have to give her more credit than that,” Ron replied. “She chose you.”

“Did you ever stop asking yourself why?”

“Why me? No. No, I didn’t. That’s why I had to let her go. She clung to me because I was familiar, not because that’s what was best. She’ll tell you that I let her get away because I couldn’t handle the way she didn’t cope with anything. That’s completely wrong, but I’ll never tell her otherwise. I let her go because I knew there had to be someone out there better. Didn’t realize it’d be you, but, if you make her happy then I’m fine with it.”

_Fine with what?_

“I must say I am frightened there will be a time when I cannot make her happy.”

“You have to give yourself up for her, that's the solution. She is the most important person in our generation. You know it, I know it, and everyone but Hermione knows it. You, your friends, the Malfoy line, it all comes second to her.”

“It does,” Draco agreed. “What the hell does she see in me, anyhow?”

Draco meant it to be rhetorical, but Bill suggested, “A second chance.”

Hermione left, more confused than ever. She returned the Extendable Ear to Fleur moments before the men came downstairs.

**.oOo.**

When Hermione stepped out of the Floo and into Malfoy Manor, Draco at her side, she immediately felt uneasy. Lucius and Narcissa were there to greet them, along with Blaise, Astoria, Katie, and Pansy. His friends were dressed for the Ministry gala, but why were they at the Manor?

Hermione asked Draco directly, “I thought we would be meeting everyone there.”

“We’re here for moral support,” Blaise said.

Hermione shot him a quizzical look.

“Support for what?” She turned to Draco whose face was rapidly losing its colour. He ran a hand through his hair.

“Are you okay?” Hermione asked.

Draco glanced toward the ceiling, took a long breath in through his nose, then exhaled through his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah. Yes, I am totally and completely fine.” He grabbed Hermione’s hand and began almost dragging her toward the East Wing.

Hermione could not keep up with either his long strides or his quick pace, so she muttered, “Slow down!” but he did not listen.

Narcissa shouted after them, “Draco, do you have the r—“

“Mum!” Draco stopped and turned to face her. “Yes, mum, and if you utter one more syllable I swear to whatever powers that be, I will banish you and Father from this house for the rest of your lives.”

“Draco!” Hermione was genuinely worried. Why was he so angry? He didn’t seem angry so much like he was in a nervous rush. His mother, though, was amused by the threat. Draco rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on Hermione’s hand.

“If I do not do this now, I am not sure I will ever be able to do it.”

Hermione was even more confused. There was an idea bouncing around the back of her mind, but if that’s what Draco was finally getting around to … There was no way. He would have done it already.

As they passed by Blaise, he whispered something in Draco’s ear. Draco nodded and continued walking for a moment before dropping Hermione’s hand and going back to wrap Blaise in a tight hug. They exchanged more whispers and Blaise was a little misty-eyed.

Hermione was very, very confused as Draco returned to guide her to the East Wing. He held the door open and led her down the stairs to the remodeled space. Draco left her at a spot near the windows, then walked a few paces away. He ran his hand through his hair again before pacing back. Hermione began to walk toward him but he immediately pointed at where she stood.

“No. Stay there,” he demanded. Hermione narrowed her eyes. Draco was not one to give her orders, so something serious had happened. Hermione was in an oversized sweater and suddenly wanted to shrink entirely inside it.

“Draco, what’s going on?”

“Why do you love me?” he asked.

Hermione tilted her head to one side and wrapped her arms around herself, not fond of this line of questioning.

“I’m not sure.”

“Figure it out,” Draco demanded.

Hermione shrugged and admitted, “I love you because you saw what happened to the world and wanted to make it right. I love you because of what you see in me, and you’re never shy about reminding me how ‘amazing’ or ‘remarkable’ or ‘fucking ingenious’ I am.” A smile quickly ghosted over Draco’s face. “And I love you because you’re the only person in this world who, when I wake up from a nightmare in your arms, I actually feel safe. Not safe from evil, but I feel, I don’t know, understood? I can’t say what I feel in those moments, and with you I don’t have to. So that's why I love you.”

“Okay, um, good. Good, that’s, um, good then,” Draco muttered like he wasn’t expecting such an honest response.

Hermione was confused and tried to step toward him again, but he pointed at her and said, “No.” Draco checked inside his jacket pocket for something, found it, and sighed in relief.

“Do you think one part of yourself can forgive the other?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” Hermione said, not understanding.

“Listen to me, Hermione. The kid who did all those things to you, the boy who stood by and refused to save you when you needed me most, he is still me. There is a part of me that is afraid, that doubts myself and who I am meant to be. I can bury them, but one day I am going to cave in. One day you are going to need me and I will second-guess myself.

“However, I outgrew that boy. I know being your hus—partner, requires that I be a good man. And when you showed me that all my organizing, my blood money, my charity has tangible effects on the lives of hundreds of people, I finally feel like I am a good man. So, can the person I am now forgive the person I was then?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hermione said with conviction. 

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“I forgave that part of you. And I do not believe for a second you will ever intentionally let me down again. As I said, I feel safe with you.”

Draco’s eyes widened in hope, like in the past five months he had never really trusted her feelings for him. Or perhaps he hadn’t believed himself worthy of that trust.

“Why are you asking me these questions?” Hermione asked.

“I make you feel safe?” Draco asked, still incredulous.

“Of course you do. What reason have you given me to feel otherwise?” Hermione asked.

Draco’s face went blank when he responded, “You are standing on it.”

Hermione realized she stood next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, right where Bellatrix carved “MUDBLOOD” into her arm. The past months of their relationship had been building up to this. Everything from the moment he said Hermione was the only person he wanted, was to try and prove that he could overcome his insecurities to be the partner she needed him to be.

“This isn’t about me,” she realized aloud.

“No, no it is not,” Draco said, visibly unnerved. His hands could not stay still, they were shaking. He nervously licked his lips then turned his gaze on Hermione. “When we started dating, that day at the Ministry I mean, I resolved to stop pushing you away but I kept doubting myself. I kept wondering what you see in me. Can I truly expect you to see the best in me when all I have ever known is darkness? Can you really love me even though I have done truly despicable things?

“Then you went and did all this for me. You set out to prove that I am a good man, and I believe you. If you tell me this is what I am, then it must be true. Until now, I could not see myself through your eyes. If I tried, all I saw was the boy my father made me.”

“That is who I saw before the ball. Now I’ve seen your contrition, your charity, and your debilitating regret.” Hermione’s confusion deepened. This felt much too intimate for an ordinary conversation, but she continued. “Once I let go of my prejudice toward you, all I saw was someone trying to do some good in the world. All I want is to do make our world a better place. Is it really surprising that after all that both of us have been through, we just want to make sure no one else suffers like we did? I don’t think it is. I think it makes perfect sense.” Hermione realized she was rambling and put a hand over her mouth.    

“Okay, okay …” Draco laughed sardonically. “You mean it, truly? You feel safe with me?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well then,” Draco looked toward the heavens and Hermione’s hand fell back to her side. She wanted to burrow inside her sweater and never leave. The space between them was fraught and she could not figure out why. Why it was so tense and why there was any space between them at all. Draco continued.

“I have told all the right people I am going to do this, and the first question they all ask is why I have not done it already. So, here it is: I love you, Hermione. I love you in the same way I know we took nineteen stairs down here, that there are three hundred ninety-four books on these shelves, and one-hundred twelve rooms in this house. These things invade my conscious thoughts, and just the same, I think of you all the time.

“I waited because I wanted to make sure you have the option to say no,” Draco said.

Hermione raised an eyebrow and made her hands into sweater paws.

“Say no to what?” she asked as he closed the distance between them.

When they were nearly nose-to-nose, Draco bent down to one knee. He reached inside his suit jacket and Hermione gasped when he produced a ring. He mumbled something about a “marquise cut” and “diamond” and “sapphires” and “my great-grandmother’s” but Hermione just covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her overwhelmed sobs. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts, but she failed.

“Hermione, will you do me the greatest honour of becoming Hermione Jean Granger Malfoy? Will you marry me?” It was strangely normal. Hermione had never seen Draco look more human than he was in that moment. She smiled through happy tears and nodded.

Draco asked, “Are you serious?” and she nodded some more before saying, “Yes! Yes. Yes.”

Hermione couldn’t stop smiling. She knew it was one of those unattractive smiles that completely exposed her teeth, but it was uncontrollable. She was giddy at the thought of a future with Draco Malfoy at her side.

Draco stood and slipped the ring onto her left ring finger. Hermione looked at it and hopped up and down a little bit, squealing in joy. She said, “Yes!” once more before pulling Draco’s head down to meet her in a kiss.

It was not at all smooth because Draco, too, found himself unable to control the smile plastered across his face. With his thumb, he wiped away the tears beginning to seep out of Hermione’s eyes. He looked so excited that Hermione was overwhelmed and could not contain her happiness. Five months earlier, she would never have believed Draco Malfoy could make her this happy. They ended up laughing, essentially, in each other’s faces. Draco settled for wrapping Hermione in a tight hug and spun her around once before setting her down.

“Merlin, I was so nervous,” Draco admitted.

“Is that why your friends are here?” Hermione asked.

Draco shook his head.

“They are here because Blaise is a bit of a prat and blabbed to Astoria. I think they thought they were being supportive but I just wanted you … I did not want you to be overwhelmed.”

“Overwhelmed? I am definitely overwhelmed!” Hermione exclaimed. “This is amazing. This is … This is …” Hermione put her hands, still in sweater paws, on his cheeks.

Draco put his hands on her waist and pulled her close.

“I love you,” she added before asking, “What did Blaise tell you before?”

Draco laughed softly.

“He said, ‘No matter what, I will always love you. I can see Hermione loves you and she will say yes, and this is a kind of love you have never known.’ Then he told me not to fuck it up.”

“You didn’t,” Hermione assured him. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “And I promise to give you all the love you have never known,” she said cheekily. Draco laughed.

“I’ll hold you to that, Granger,” he said, suggestively lowering his voice.

Hermione laughed at his loaded implication before reminding him, “It’s Malfoy, to you.”

At that, Draco Malfoy blushed.

“Let’s go upstairs. I’m sure they’re all waiting.” He stole another kiss and Hermione laughed.

“Are you ready now?” she asked.

“For anything, so long as it’s with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this story all the way through!! Comments and criticism are always appreciated. Happy Christmas!!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and criticism are always appreciated.


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